Garth’s eyes twinkled.

“As a matter of fact, it was love o’ women that was Anselmo’s undoing,” he said.  “In spite of his vows, he fell in love—­with a very beautiful Spanish lady, and to make matters worse, if that were possible, the lady was possessed of a typically jealous Spanish husband, who, on discovering how the land lay, killed his wife, and would have killed Anselmo as well, but that he escaped to England.  The vessel on which he sailed was wrecked at the foot of what has been called, ever since, the Monk’s Cliff; but Anselmo himself succeeded in swimming ashore, and spent the remainder of his life at Monkshaven, doing penance for the mistakes of his earlier days.”

“He chose a charming place to repent in,” said Sara, her eyes wandering to the distant bay, where the quaint little town straggled picturesquely up the hill that sloped away from the coast.

“Yes,” responded Garth slowly, “it’s not a bad place—­to repent in. . . .  It would be a better place still—­to love and be happy in.”

There was a brooding melancholy in his tones, and Sara, hearing it, spoke very gently.

“I hope you will find it—­like that,” she said.

“I?” He laughed hardly.  “No!  Those gifts of the gods are not for such as I. The husks are my portion.  If it were not so”—­his voice deepened to a sudden urgent note that moved her strangely—­“if it were not so—­”

As though in spite of himself, his arms moved gropingly towards her.  Then, with a muttered exclamation, he turned away and sprang hastily to his feet.

“Let us go back,” he said abruptly, and Sara, shaken by his vehemence, rose obediently, and they began to retrace their steps.

It had grown much colder.  The sun hung low in the horizon, and the deceptive warmth of mid-afternoon had given place to the chill dampness in the atmosphere.  Half unconsciously, feeling that the time must have slipped away more rapidly than she had suspected, Sara quickened her steps, Garth striding silently at her side.  Presently the little wooden jetty came into view once more.  It bore a curiously bare, deserted aspect, the waves riding and falling sluggishly on either side of its black, tarred planking, Sara stared at it incredulously, then an exclamation of sheer dismay burst from her lips.

“The boat!  Look!  It’s gone!”

“Gone?” Garth’s eyes sought the landing-stage, then swept the vista of grey-water ahead of them.

“Damn!” he ejaculated forcibly.  “She’s got adrift!”

A brown speck, bobbing maddeningly up and down in the distance and momentarily drifting further and further out to sea on the ebbing tide, was all that could be seen of the Betsy Anne.

An involuntary chuckle broke from Sara.

“Marooned!” she exclaimed.  “How amusing!”

“Amusing?” Trent looked at her with a concerned expression.  “It might be, if it were eleven o’clock in the morning.  But it’s the wrong end of the day.  It will be dark before long.”  He paused, then asked swiftly:  “Does any one at Sunnyside know where you are this afternoon?”