The girl, indeed, pushing her hair back from her temples, looked wildly in George’s face for an instant, like one who wakes from a dream; but the next, her whole countenance lit up with delight, and holding out both hands to him, she exclaimed, in accents of irrepressible tenderness and self-abandonment, “_C’est toi!_” then the pale face flushed crimson, and the loving eyes drooped beneath his own. To him she had always been beautiful—most beautiful, perhaps, in his dreams—but never in dreams nor in waking reality so beautiful as now. He gazed on her entranced, motionless, forgetful of everything in the world but that one loved being restored, as it seemed, by a miracle, at the very time when she had been most lost to him. His stout heart, thrilling to its core from her glance, quailed to think of what must have befallen had he arrived a minute too late, and a prayer went up from it of hearty humble thanksgiving that he was in time. He saw nothing but that drooping form in its delicate white dress, with its gentle feminine gestures and rich dishevelled hair; heard nothing but the accents of that well-remembered voice vibrating with the love that he felt was deep and tender as his own. He was unconscious of the cheers of his victorious boat’s crew, of the groans and shrieks uttered by wounded or routed negroes, of the dead beneath his feet, the blazing rafters overhead, the showers of sparks and rolling clouds of smoke that already filled the house; unconscious even of Madame de Montmirail’s recovery from her stupor, as she too recognised him, and raising herself with an effort from her daughter’s embrace, muttered in deep passionate tones, “C’est lui!” But it was no time for the exchanges of ceremonious politeness, or the indulgence of softer emotions. The house was fairly on fire, the negroes were up in arms all over the island. A boat’s crew, however sturdy, is but a handful of men, and courage becomes foolhardy when it opposes itself voluntarily at odds of one against a score. Slap-Jack was the first to speak. “Askin’ _your_ pardon, ladies,” said he, with seamanlike deference to the sex; “the sooner we can clear out of this here the better. If you’ll have the kindness to point out your sea-chests, and possibles, and such like, Bottle-Jack here, he’ll be answerable for their safety, and me an’ my mates we’ll run you both down to the beach and have you aboard in a pig’s whisper. The island’s getting hot, miss,” he added confidentially to Cerise, who did not the least understand him. “In these low latitudes, a house afire and a hundred of blacks means a bobbery, just as sure as at home four old women and a goose makes a market!”