"No, no--I confess," said Penelly feebly, for he felt that his last hour had come. "I did it. I felt tempted to do it when you swam round; but Heaven's my witness, Harry, I only meant to duck you. I meant to help drag you out after a minute, and so I did." "How came you in the race this morning?" said Harry, in a cold, cutting voice. "I'll--I'll confess all," said Penelly faintly, "only help me out and save my life. I'll go away from Carn Du, Harry Paul. I'll be like your dog in future, only save me." "The dog of a terrible coward?" said Harry coldly. "Oh, no; but you are not a coward, Harry. Help!" "How came you in the race?" "I--I--swam off to the lugger. I meant to swim off and cut her adrift-- the lugger Zekle was in--he said he'd tell you. I got into the water this side of Carn Du, and meant to swim to the buoy, cut her adrift, and swim back, but I was caught in the race. Help me out--I'm dying! Oh! help me, Harry! help!" Harry Paul made no effort to drag the wretched man out, but gazed thoughtfully downward into his eyes, while, under the influence of that stern gaze, Penelly quailed and shuddered, his blue lips parted, his eyes seem to start, but he could not speak. "Mark Penelly," said Harry at length; and his voice sounded deep and angry, and like the utterance of a judge, to the despairing wretch beneath him--"Mark Penelly, I never did you any harm." Penelly stared at him wildly, but he could not answer. "You have always made yourself my enemy, and tried to ruin me in the sight of others. It is to you I owe the character of being the greatest coward in Carn Du. You said I was a miserable cur--a dog. Every dog has his day, and now it is mine. It is my turn now, and I mean to have revenge." As he spoke his hands tightened round the shivering man's wrists till they seemed like iron bands. He changed his position rapidly, and as Penelly closed his eyes, lowered the miserable wretch down till the water covered his lips, and then, by one strong effort, dragged him out on to the weedy rock, where he lay motionless and half dead, his eyes fixed upon Harry, and evidently waiting for the end. "Poor wretch!" said Harry to himself, as he gazed down at the helpless man, and, loosening and taking off his woollen jersey, he wrung it tightly, getting out as much water as he could, and then drew it on the stony cold figure lying in the washed-up dry brown weed. This, too, he dragged over him, piling it up in a heap, to try and give him some warmth, while the exertion sent a thrill of heat through his own half-naked frame.