“Throw up your arms—­throw them up at once, or, as God hears me, I’ll shoot!” she cried.  “Run, Ceddie—­run, baby!  He shan’t follow you—­I’ll kill him if he tries!”

“You idiot!” began Merode, and made a lurch toward her.  But the pistol barked, and something white-hot zigzagged along his arm and bit like a flame into his shoulder.

“Up with your hands—­up with them!” she said in a voice that shook with excitement as he howled out and made a reeling backward step.  “Next time it will be the head I aim at, not the arm!” Then, lifting up her voice in one loud shriek that made the echoes bound, she called with all her strength; “Help, somebody—­for God’s sake help!  Scream, Ceddie—­scream!  Help!  Help!”

And lo! as she called, as if a miracle had been wrought, out of the darkness an answering voice called back to her, and the wild, swift notes of a motor horn bleated along the lonely road.

“I’m coming—­I—­Cleek!” that voice rang out.  “Hold your own—­hold it to the last, Miss Lorne, and God help the man who lays a finger on you!”

“Mr. Cleek!  Mr. Cleek, oh, thank God!” she flung back with all the rapture a human voice could contain.  “Come on, come on!  I’ve got him—­got that man Merode, and the boy is safe, the boy is safe!  Come on! come on! come on!”

“We’re a-comin’, miss, you gamble on that—­and the lightnin’s a fool to us!” shouted Dollops in reply.  “Let her have it, Gov’nor!  Bust the bloomin’ tank.  Give her her head; give her her feet; give her her blessed merry-thought if she wants it!  Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”

And then, just then, when she most needed her strength and her courage, Ailsa’s evaporated.  The reaction came and with the despairing cries of Merode and Lanisterre ringing in her ears, she sank back, weak, white, almost fainting—­and, leaning against the side of the archway, began to laugh and to sob hysterically.  Merode seized that one moment and sprang to the breach.

Realising that the game was all but up, that there was nothing for him now but to save his own skin if he could, he called out to Lanisterre to follow him, then plunged into the mill, swung over the lever which controlled the sluice gates, and, darting out by the back way, fled across the waste.

But behind him he left a scene of indescribable horror, and the shrill screaming of a little child told him when that horror began.  For as the sluice gates opened a sullen roar sounded; on one side the diverted millstream, and on the other the river, rose as two solid walls of water, rushed forward and—­met; and in the twinkling of an eye the old water-course was one wild, leaping, roaring, gyrating whirlpool of up-flung froth and twisting waves that bore in their eddying clutch the battling figure of a drowning child.