All agreed to these suggestions, and oaths were taken and hopes of everlasting salvation pledged that were not worth the breath that sounded them.  It was next ascertained by Monsieur Benoist, who naturally took a leading part in the organization, that every man of the twelve possessed a fire-arm of one kind or another.  Then Bill McKay, Mother McKay’s son, and two others departed in quest of horses and sleds.  The roads were fairly good now, though unpacked.  Mother McKay set to work at the packing of provisions for the expedition.  She was heart and soul in the enterprise, and would have her interests represented by her son Bill, the worst rascal, hardest fighter and most devoted son in St. John’s.  She had a hold on some of the small farmers around—­in fact, she owned several of the farms—­so it was not long before Bill and his companions returned, each in possession of a horse and sled.  The expedition set out at two o’clock of a windless, frosty, star-lit morning.  They travelled the roads which John Darling had followed, several days before; but now the mud-holes and quaking bogs were frozen and covered with snow.  Bill McKay drove the sled that led the way at a pace that gave the following teamsters all they could do to keep in touch; but willing hands manned the whips and hammering sled-stakes.  Now and again one or another of the raiders would fall off a sled and necessitate a halt; and so the poor horses were given a chance, now and again, to recover something of their lost wind.

Back in Chance Along things were going briskly.  Mary Kavanagh learned from John Darling something of the history of the diamond and ruby necklace and made up her mind to return it to the sailor.  She wanted to clean the harbor of everything of the kind—­of everything that came up from the sea in shattered ships, except food.  She saw the hands of the saints in salvaged provisions, but the hand of the devil himself in wrecked gold and jewels—­and wrecked women.  She decided to arrange the recovery of the necklace and the bully, and the escape of the strangers for that very night; and her decision was sealed, a few hours later, by the skipper’s behavior.  It was this way with the skipper.  He felt shame for having kept the girl in the harbor against her prayers, and for the lies he had told her and the destruction of the letters; but he was neither humble nor contrite.  Shame was a bitter and maddening emotion for one of his nature.  He brooded over this shame, and over that aroused by the girl’s scorn, until his finer feelings toward her were burned out and blown abroad like ashes.  His infatuation lost its fine, ennobling element of worship, and fell to a red glow of desire of possession.  He forced his way to Flora’s room, despite the protests of Mother Nolan.

“To-morrow ye’ll be mine or ye’ll be his,” he said, staring fixedly at the frightened girl.  “To-morrow mornin’ him an’ me bes a-goin’ to fight for ye—­an’ the man what lives will have ye!  Ye put the name o’ coward on to me—­but I bain’t no coward!  I fights fair—­an’ the best man wins.  I could kill him now, if I was a coward.”