There was a pause, an awful interval of hope and terror, and then the boatman shouted to his mate below to lend a hand there, and in the next instant a limp, lifeless figure, in dust-whitened clothes, was thrust from the narrow mouth of the cave and lowered gently into the boatman’s sturdy arms. But not unaided did the boatman receive his burden, Mr. Jerningham’s arms were extended to assist in receiving that helpless form; Mr. Jerningham’s hands laid it gently upon Helen’s shawl, which she had flung off and cast upon the ground a moment before. Dead or alive? For some moments that was a moot question. Harold Jerningham knelt beside the prostrate figure, with his head bent low upon its breast. “Thank God!” he said, quietly, with his hand upon the young man’s heart. “It _does_ beat.” He tried to feel the pulse, but a faint groan broke from the white lips as he lifted the wrist. “His arm is broken,” said Mr. Jerningham, in the same quiet tone; and then he turned to Helen, with a sudden burst of feeling. “It is you who found him,” he cried, “I dedicate his life to you.” At any other moment such words might have provoked interrogation; but this was a time in which the wildest words pass unquestioned. The two boatmen, aided always by Mr. Jerningham, carried the lifeless figure to the boat, where it was gently laid upon a bed, composed of a folded sail, an overcoat, and Helen’s shawl, against the rejection of which she pleaded piteously. “Indeed, I am warmly dressed; I do not want it,” she said. Mr. Jerningham seated himself in the boat, with his son’s head upon his knees. He looked down wonderingly at the pale, still face, so wan and haggard with pain. It was so difficult to comprehend his own feelings, and the change that had come upon him, since he had known that this young man was _his_. “My rival,” he said to himself. “No, not my rival. My representative. The image I can show to the world, and say, ‘This is what I was!’” Before they reached the inn at Killalochie, the village knew that the lost had been found. Scouts had posted off from the jetty with the happy tidings, before the boatmen could carry their burden on shore. He was found--alive. Every one seemed to know this by instinct. Half-way between the jetty and the inn, Daniel Mayfield met them, staggering like a drunken man, pale as a corpse. He hung over the unconscious man with womanly fondness. He pushed Harold Jerningham aside, and asserted his right to his kinsman. “Let no one stand between me and my boy,” he cried, huskily. Scouts rushed to fetch the village surgeon, other scouts bade the landlady prepare her best room. All the common business of life was suspended in favour of this one stranger, snatched from the jaws of death. They carried him to the best room, which happened to be Mr. Jerningham’s room, and here he was laid, still unconscious, upon his father’s bed.