The dying and the dead were leaping about in the wildest exhibition of gleeful triumph!

The yacht slipped into the unreachable horizon, the feathery cloud from its stack lying over against the leaden sky, shaped like a finger that pointed mockingly the way to safety.

White-faced and despairing, the watchers turned away and dragged themselves into the splendid halls of the building they had now come to regard as their tomb.  Their voices were hushed and tremulous; they were looking at the handwriting on the wall.  They had not noticed it there before.

Saunders was bravely saying to his distracted wife, as he led her down the marble hall: 

“Don’t give up the ship, dear.  My word for it, we’ll live to see that garden out Hammersmith way.  My word for it, dear.”

“He’s trying so hard to be brave,” said Genevra, oppressed by the knowledge that it was her ship that had played them false.  “And Agnes?  Look, Hollingsworth!  She is herself again.  Ah, these British women come up under the lash, don’t they?”

Lady Deppingham had thrown off her hopeless, despondent air; she was crying out words of cheer and encouragement to those about her.  Her eyes were flashing, her head was erect and her voice was rich with inspiration.

“And you?” asked Chase, after a moment.  “What of you?  Your ship has come and gone and you are still here—­with me.  You almost wished for this.”

“No.  I almost wished that it would not come.  There is a distinction,” she said bitterly.  “It has come and it has disappointed all of us—­not one alone.”

“Do you remember what it was that Saunders said about having lived only a week, all told?  The rest was nothing.”

“Yes—­but you have seen that Saunders still covets life in a garden at Hammersmith Bridge.  I am no less human than Mr. Saunders.”

All day long the islanders rejoiced.  Their shouts could be plainly heard by the besieged; their rifles cracked sarcastic greetings from the forest; bullets whistled gay accompaniments to the ceaseless song:  “Allah is great!  Allah is good!”

No man in the despised house of Taswell Skaggs slept that night.  The guard was doubled at all points open to attack.  It was well that the precaution was taken, for the islanders, believing that the enemy’s force had been largely reduced by the polluted water, made a vicious assault on the lower gates.  There was a fierce exchange of shots and the attackers drew away, amazed, stunned by the discovery that the beleaguered band was as strong and as determined as ever.

At two in the morning, Deppingham, Browne and Chase came up from the walls for coffee and an hour’s rest.

“Chase, if you don’t get your blooming cruiser here before long, we’ll be as little worth the saving as old man Skaggs, up there in his open-work grave,” Deppingham was saying as he threw himself wearily into a chair in the breakfast room.  They were wet and cold.  They had heard Rasula’s minions shouting derisively all night long:  “Where is the warship?  Where is the warship?”