“Will she lament his death?” he asked himself, “or is her love for him only a girlish fancy, that will perish with its object. She seemed tolerably happy in his absence, and I hoped she had completely forgotten him, and was learning to love me. Why should I not win her love? And he comes back, and in the first moment of his return I discover that I have been building on sand. The divine attraction of youth is with my rival, and all my dreams and all my hopes are so much foolishness and self-delusion.” This is what Mr. Jerningham thought as he rode across the barren hills towards Killalochie, whither he went as fast as his horse could carry him, but not faster than the dark storm-clouds which overtook him half-way, and drenched him with heavy rain. The sky grew black as Erebus, and looking seaward every now and then, he saw the breakers leap and whiten as they rolled in. That common humanity which prompts a man to help his direst foe in extreme peril, made Mr. Jerningham eager to reach Killalochie. There, perhaps, he might find he had been deceived by the gloomy presages of the fishermen, or thence he might send other means to help the missing traveller. He rode up to the little inn an hour after leaving Halko’s Head. M. de Bergerac and his daughter had arrived some time before, and Mr. Jerningham was informed that dinner would be served immediately. “Put it off for a quarter of an hour,” he said to the servant, “and do not let my friend or his daughter know of my arrival. I want to see the landlord on most urgent business.” The landlord was in the bar, talking to a portly, middle-aged gentleman, who was lounging against an angle of the wall, smoking a cigar. “I really wish my nephew were safe in this house,” said this person, “for I think we are in for a rough night.” Mr. Jerningham told the landlord of his fears, and asked whether the walk from Halko’s Head to Killalochie by the sands were indeed as perilous as it had been represented by the fisherman. The landlord confirmed all he had heard. “Is there anything to be done?” cried Mr. Jerningham; “a gentleman, whom I met at Halko’s Head, set out to walk here at the turn of the tide. I sent boats after him, but the men seemed to fear the result.” “From Halko’s Head,” exclaimed the lounger, taking his cigar from his mouth, and staring aghast at Harold Jerningham. “I expect my nephew from Halko’s Head. Do you know the name of the man you met there?” “He is my friend’s secretary, Mr. Thorburn.” “O God,” cried Daniel, “it’s my boy!” For a few moments he leant against the wall, helpless, and white as death. In the next instant he called upon them hoarsely to help him, to follow him, and ran bare-headed from the house. “Who is that man?” asked Mr. Jerningham. “He’s fra the south, sir; Mayfield by name.” “Mayfield!” muttered the questioner. “Of _her_ blood.”