The Marquise, watching their progress with eager restless glance, that betrayed strong passions and feelings kept down by a stronger will, observed that when within a pistol-shot of the opposite shore the bark was propelled swiftly through the water, as if the swimmer exerted himself to the utmost—so much so as to drive it violently against the bank. George’s voice, while his dripping figure emerged into sight, warned her that all was well; but straining her eyes in the uncertain light, the Marquise, though she discerned her daughter’s white dress plainly enough, could see nothing of the boat. Again George shouted, but she failed to make out the purport of what he said; though a gleam of intelligence on the old seaman’s face made her turn to Bottle-Jack. “What is it?” she asked anxiously. “Why does he not come back to us with the canoe?” “The canoe will make no more voyages, my lady,” answered the old man, with a grim leer that had in it less of mirth than pain. “She’s foundered, that’s wot she’s been an’ done. They’ll send back for us, never fear; so you an’ me will keep watch and watch till they come; an’ if you please, my lady, askin’ your pardon, I’ll keep _my_ watch first.” CHAPTER XXXIX ALL ADRIFT The Marquise scarcely heard him. She was intent on those two figures scrambling up the opposite shore, and fast disappearing into the darkness beyond. It seemed that the darkness was closing in around herself, never again to be dispelled. When those were gone what was there left on earth for _her_? She had lost Cerise, she told herself, the treasure she had guarded so carefully; the darling for whom she would have sacrificed her life a thousand times, as the events of the last few hours proved; the one aim and object of her whole existence, without which she was alone in the world. And now this man had come and taken her child away, and it would never be the same thing again. Cerise loved him, she was sure of that. Ah! they could not deceive _her_; and he loved Cerise. She knew it by his voice in those few words when he suggested that the girl should cross the water first. The Marquise twined her fingers together, as if she were in pain. They must be safe now. Walking side by side on the peaceful beach, waiting for the boat that should bear them away, would they forget all about her in the selfishness of their new-found happiness, and leave her to perish here? She wished they would. She wished the rioters, coming on in overwhelming numbers, might force the pass and drive these honest blue-jackets in before them to make a last desperate stand at the water’s edge. She could welcome death then, offering herself willingly to ensure the safety of those two.