It must have been nearly a minute later that the moon shone forth again, throwing gleaming streaks of brightness upon the mighty breakers that had swallowed the magic pool.  They were riding in past the Spear Point in majestic and unending procession, and the rocks that surrounded the pool were already deeply covered.  The surf of one great wave was rushing over the beach to the Caves, and the spray of it blew over Knight, drenching him from head to foot.  Desperately, by that passing gleam of moonlight, he searched for the opening of the path, the foam of the oncoming procession already swirling about his feet.  He spied it suddenly at length, and in the same instant something within him—­could it have been his heart?—­dropped abruptly like a loosened weight to the very depths of his being.  The way of escape in that direction was already cut off.  In the darkness he had not taken a straight course, and it was too late.

Wildly he turned—­like a hunted animal seeking refuge.  With great leaps and gigantic effort, he made for the open beach.  He reached it, reached the loose dry sand so soon to be covered by the roaring tumult of great waters.  His eyes glared out over the level stretch that intervened between the Spear Point Rock and the harbour quay.  The tide would not be over it yet.

He flung his last defiance to the fate that relentlessly hunted him as he took the only alternative, and set himself to traverse the way of the quicksand—­that dragged a man down quicker than hell.

CHAPTER VIII

THE BOON

Someone was mounting the steep cliff-path that led to Rufus’s cottage—­a man, square-built and powerful, who carried a burden.  The moon shone dimly upon his progress through a veil of drifting cloud.  He was streaming with water at every step, but he moved as if his drenched clothing were in no way a hindrance—­steadily, strongly, with stubborn fixity of purpose.  The burden he carried hung limply in his arms, and over his shoulder there drifted a heavy mass of wet, black hair.

He came at length on his firm, bare feet to the little gate that led to the lonely cottage, and, without pausing, passed through.  The cottage door was ajar.  He pushed it back and entered, closing it, even as he did so, with a backward fling of the heel.  Then, in the tiny living-room, by the light of the lamp that shone in the window, he laid his burden down.

White and cold, she lay with closed eyes upon the little sofa, motionless and beautiful as a statue recumbent upon a tomb, her drenched draperies clinging about her.  He stood for a second looking upon her; then, still with the absolute steadiness of set purpose, he turned and went into the inner room.

He came back with a blanket, and stooping, he lifted the limp form and, with a certain deftness that seemed a part of his immovable resolution, he wrapped it in the rough grey folds.