“He thinks he’ll save his own skin by clearing out,” said Holman, “but I’m satisfied that Dame Justice is an expert with the lariat.  If he’s not in jail before three months are out, my name is not Will Holman.”

It was the missionary schooner Messenger of Light that saw our beacon upon the island on the fourth day after we had reached the spot where we had landed from The Waif.  The beautiful white vessel hove to outside the entrance to the little bay, a boat came ashore, and twenty minutes after they had first sighted our signal we were on the way to Wellington, New Zealand.

“And the ’Frisco boats call there,” murmured Barbara, “Joy!  Joy!  Joy!”

The moon was whitening the sleeping Pacific when Edith and I stood looking over the taffrail as the Messenger of Light swept on her course.  From nearby came the voice of Professor Herndon relating his experiences to a missionary who was returning from the Marquesas.  A soft island melody was wafted from the fo’c’stle, and the night was alive with all the witchery of the tropics.

“Edith,” I whispered, as I took her hand, “I am a common sailorman, but if you could love me I—­I—­”

I stopped in confusion, and as she had done on a former occasion, she came to the rescue of my stammering tongue.

“You are a big, true man,” she murmured.  “If you had not come with us we should not have returned from that awful place.  God let you listen to that song of the White Waterfall so that we might be saved.”

Some minutes afterward she released herself from my arms.  “Let us find Will and Barbara,” she said softly.  “We will share each other’s happiness.”

And as I followed her across the poop, a tremendous surge of joy rose up and filled my heart.  The whole world was clean and good, and in my glorious exultation I whispered a prayer for the soul of John Leith, alias Black Fernando.

THE END