“He’d row us down and gralloch us like swimming deer.”

“But if one goes alone?”

“Oh, Yellow-hair!  Yellow-hair!  If you only could!”

“I can.”

“Swim it?”

“Yes.”

“It’s cold water.  Few can swim Isla Water.  It’s a long swim from Isla Craig to the house.”

“I can do it, I think.”

After a terrible silence he said:  “Yes, best try it, Yellow-hair....  I had meant to keep the last cartridge for you...”

“Dear Kay,” she breathed close to his cheek.

Presently he was obliged to fire again, but remained uncertain as to his luck in the raging storm of lead that followed.

“I guess you better go, Yellow-hair,” he whispered.  “My guns are about all in.”

“Try to hold them off.  I’ll come back.  Of course you understand I’m not going for myself, Kay, I’m going for ammunition.”

“What!”

“What did you suppose?” she asked curtly.

At that he blazed up:  “If you can win through Isla Water you stay on the other side and telephone Glenark!  Do you hear?  I’m all right.  It’s—­it’s none of your business how I end this—­”

“Kay?”

“What?”

“Turn your back.  I’m undressing.”

He heard her stripping, kneeling in the ferns behind him,—­heard the rip of delicate fabric and the rustle of silk-lined garments falling.

Presently she said:  “Can I be noticed if I slip down through the bushes to the water?”

“O God,” he whispered, “be careful, Yellow-hair. ...  No, the man in the boat is keeping his distance.  He’ll never see you.  Don’t splash when you take the water.  Swim like an otter, under, until you’re well out. ...  You’re young and sturdy, slim as you are.  You’ll get through if the chill of Isla doesn’t paralyse you.  But you’ve got to do it, Yellow-hair; you’ve got to do it.”

“Yes.  Hold them off, Kay.  I’ll be back.  Hold them off, dear Kay.  Will you?”

“I’ll try, Yellow-hair....  Good luck!  Don’t try to come back!”

“Good luck,” she whispered close to his ear; and, for a second he felt her slim young hands on his shoulders—­lightly—­the very ghost of contact.  That was all.  He waited a hundred years.  Then another.  Then, his weapons levelled, listening, he cast a quick glance backward.  At the foot of the Pulpit a dark ripple lapped the rock.  Nothing there now; nothing in Isla Water save far in the stars’ lustre the shadowy boat lying motionless.

Toward dawn they tried to rush the Pulpit.  He used a heavy fragment of rock on the first man up, and as his quarry went smashing earthward, a fierce whine burst from the others:  “Shot out!  All together now!” But his pistol spoke again and they recoiled, growling, disheartened, cursing the false hope that had re-nerved them.

It was his last shot, however.  He had a heavy clasp-knife such as salmon-anglers carry.  He laid his empty pistols on the rocky ledge.  Very patiently he felt for frost-loosened masses of rock, detached them one by one and noiselessly piled them along the ledge.