“The Little Garden of St. Sebastien,” murmured the woman, and led him on to cross the square.  A figure that had been hidden in the shadow now lounged forth; and revealed itself to them as a man in uniform.  He stood across their way, and accosted the woman briefly in Portuguese.

Dawson stood fidgeting while she spoke with him.  He seemed to be repeating a brief phrase over and over again, harshly and irritably; but she was cajoling, remonstrating, arguing, as he had seen her argue in that ill-fated room an hour back.

“What’s the matter with him?” demanded Dawson impatiently.

“He says he won’t let me go,” answered the woman, with a tone of despair in her voice.

“The devil he won’t!  What’s he got to do with it?”

“Oh, these little policemen, they always arrest me when they can,” she replied, with a smile.

“Here, you!” cried Dawson, addressing himself to the man in uniform—­ “you go away.  Voetsaak, see!  You mind your own business, and get out.”

The officer drawled something in his own tongue, which was, of course, unintelligible to Dawson, but it had the effect of annoying him strangely.

“You little beast!” he said, and knocked the man down with his fist.

“Run,” hissed the woman at his elbow—­“run before he can get up.  No, not that way.  To the church and out by another way!”

She caught his hand, and together they raced across the square and in through the big door.

There were a few people within, most sleeping on the benches and along the floor by the walls.  In the chancel there were others, masked by the lights, busy with some offices.  A wave of sudden song issued from among them as Dawson and the woman entered, and gave way again to the high, nervous voice of a map that stood before the altar.  All along the sides of the church was shadow, and the woman speedily found a little arched door.

“Come through the middle of it,” she whispered urgently to Dawson, as she packed her loose skirts together in her hand—­“cleanly through the middle; do not rub the wall as you come.”

He obeyed and followed her, and they were once more in the darkness of an alley.

“It was the door of the lepers,” she explained, as she let her skirts swish down again.  “See, there is the light by the sea!”

The wind came cleanly up the alley, and soon they were at its mouth, where a lamp flickered in the breeze.  Dawson drew a deep breath, and tucked the image under his arm.  His palm was sore with the roughness of its head.

“Some one is passing,” said the woman in a low tone.  “Wait here till they are by.”

Footsteps were approaching along the front, and very soon Dawson heard words and started.

“What is it!” whispered the woman, her breath on his neck.

“Listen!” he answered curtly.

The others came within the circle of the lamp—­a girl and two men.