For a moment he stood, his sinewy hands working convulsively, and then, walking up to Lamport, he gripped him on the shoulder and swung him round. There was no word spoken. Quick as thought Lamport's knife was in his hand. It flashed a moment in the air, and Bill staggered back with an oath. He had been only just in time to escape the stroke, which nevertheless inflicted a slight flesh wound. The next moment the knife was dashed from Lamport's hand, and Bill's fingers were round his throat. He made an effort to struggle, he tried to shout, but, active and powerful as he was, he was like a child in the hands of the giant. * * * * * It was ended very soon, that noiseless struggle, and Bill stood over the dead man. He felt for his belt, and regained it with a feeling of intense satisfaction. It was light, but the lost weight was balanced now. Bill was not of those who hesitated at a critical moment. "Over he goes," said he, and, lifting the body, he flung it over the chains, where it fell with a plash into the water. "And now to follow suit." He ran down the stone steps of the quay, and, carefully removing his boots, held them together in his teeth. He then pulled off his coat, and for the first time realized that he was wounded. "Better this way than any other," muttered he to himself as he made a bold plunge and struck out for his ship. CHAPTER XVII. FROM THE CHOIR OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS. Some one has said that there is a consolation in being well dressed that even religion can not afford. It was with the consciousness of this feeling that Lizzie Sarkies knelt by her husband's side at midnight mass in the Church of the Holy Innocents. It was New Year's Eve, and the young year was being welcomed in with all the pomp and ceremony of the Roman Catholic ritual. The old year was dying. It had covered its face with its mantle of broken hopes, of resolves unkept, of withered lives. With the New Year would come fresh hope and high resolve. The pages of the past were to be turned down, the fair white sheets of a new record opened, the Most High would lend an attentive ear to the voice of His people calling from the deep. The church was full. Of those who were spared from the dangers of the past some were here to thank the Godhead for his mercy, and to pray as humble creatures should for the light that never comes. There were others with dead hearts, hearts that had gotten the "dry-rot" into them. These came because the others came, because their ears were tickled by the music. Their lips murmured prayers that found no echoes in their souls, and as they looked upon the Host they gave no thought to the past. As for the future, with such as these the future has no lesson to learn. Sufficient for them was it that they lived, and sinned, and died.