“You are quite sure, Carre?” he panted, as we ran.

“Quite sure.  His eyes drew mine, and I knew him as he knew me.”

“Never knew him to go there before.  Devil’s luck he should be there to-night.”

I think it no shame to confess to a very great fear, for of a surety, now, the earth was not large enough for this man and me.  I held his life in my hand as surely as though he were but a grasshopper, and he knew it.  And he was strong with the strength of many purposeful men behind him, every man as heartless as himself, and Le Marchant and I were but two.  My head swam at thought of the odds between us, and hope grew sick in me.

My sole idea of escape, under the spur of that great fear, had been to get to the boat and make for home.  But Le Marchant, having less at stake,—­so far as he knew at all events,—­had his wits more in hand, and used them to better purpose.  For, supposing we got away all right in the dark, Torode’s schooner could sail four feet to our one, and if he sighted us we should be completely at his mercy, a most evil and cruel thing to trust to.  Then, too, there was La Hague, with its fierce waves, and beyond it the wild Race of Alderney with its contrarieties and treacheries,—­ill things to tackle even in a ship of size.  Le Marchant thought on these things, and before we were into the town he panted them out, and turned off suddenly to the left and made for the open country.

“We’ll strike right through to Carteret,” he jerked.  “The boat must go....  He’ll look for us in the town and the wind’s against him for La Hague....  We must get across before he can get round.”

“How far across?”

“Less than twenty miles....  There soon after midnight....  Steal a boat if necessary.”

We settled down into a steady walk and got our wind back, and my spirits rose, and hope showed head once more.  If we could get across to Sercq before Torode could lay us by the heels, we would be safe among our own folks, and, unless I was very much mistaken, he would no more than visit Herm and away before I could raise Peter Port against him.

Neither of us had travelled that land before, but we knew the direction we had to take, and the stars kept us to our course.

We pressed on without a halt, for every moment was of importance, and for the most part we went in silence.  For myself, I was already, in my thoughts, clasping my mother and Carette in my arms once more, and then speeding across to Peter Port to rouse them there with the news of Torode’s murderous treachery.

Le Marchant was the more practical man of the two.  As we passed some windmills, and came swinging down towards the western coast, soon after midnight, he gave a cheerful “Hourra!” and in reply to my stare, cried, “The wind, man!  It’s as dead as St. Magloire.  Monsieur Torode will never get round La Hague like this.”

“It will come again with the sun, maybe,” I said.