It was Bach’s “Chaconne.”  You should have seen her eyes shine, her fingers actually tremble while she turned over the pages.  Seems odd to think of her worshipping at the shrine of Bach as odd as to think of a wild colt running of its free will into the shafts; but that’s just it with her you can never tell.  “Heavenly!” she kept saying.

John Ford put down his knife and fork.

“Heathenish stuff!” he muttered, and suddenly thundered out, “Pasiance!”

She looked up with a start, threw the music from her, and resumed her place.

During evening prayers, which follow every night immediately on food, her face was a study of mutiny.  She went to bed early.  It was rather late when we broke up—­for once old Ford had been talking of his squatter’s life.  As we came out, Dan held up his hand.  A dog was barking.  “It’s Lass,” he said.  “She’ll wake Pasiance.”

The spaniel yelped furiously.  Dan ran out to stop her.  He was soon back.

“Somebody’s been in the orchard, and gone off down to the cove.”  He ran on down the path.  I, too, ran, horribly uneasy.  In front, through the darkness, came the spaniel’s bark; the lights of the coastguard station faintly showed.  I was first on the beach; the dog came to me at once, her tail almost in her mouth from apology.  There was the sound of oars working in rowlocks; nothing visible but the feathery edges of the waves.  Dan said behind, “No use!  He’s gone.”  His voice sounded hoarse, like that of a man choking with passion.

“George,” he stammered, “it’s that blackguard.  I wish I’d put a bullet in him.”  Suddenly a light burned up in the darkness on the sea, seemed to swing gently, and vanished.  Without another word we went back up the hill.  John Ford stood at the gate motionless, indifferent—­nothing had dawned on him as yet.  I whispered to Dan, “Let it alone!”

“No,” he said, “I’m going to show you.”  He struck a match, and slowly hunted the footsteps in the wet grass of the orchard.  “Look—­here!”

He stopped under Pasiance’s window and swayed the match over the ground.  Clear as daylight were the marks of some one who had jumped or fallen.  Dan held the match over his head.

“And look there!” he said.  The bough of an apple-tree below the window was broken.  He blew the match out.

I could see the whites of his eyes, like an angry animal’s.

“Drop it, Dan!” I said.

He turned on his heel suddenly, and stammered out, “You’re right.”

But he had turned into John Ford’s arms.

The old man stood there like some great force, darker than the darkness, staring up at the window, as though stupefied.  We had not a word to say.  He seemed unconscious of our presence.  He turned round, and left us standing there.

“Follow him!” said Dan.  “Follow him—­by God! it’s not safe.”