At an early hour all was ready. Falkner was placed in the litter; and the little party, gladly leaving the precincts of the miserable village, proceeded slowly towards the seashore. Every step was replete with pain and danger. Elizabeth was again all herself. Self-possessed and vigilant, she seemed at once to attain years of experience. No one could remember that it was a girl of sixteen who directed them. Hovering round the litter of the wounded man, and pointing out how best to carry him, so that he might suffer least--as the inequalities of the ground, the heights to climb, and the ravines to cross, made it a task of difficulty. Now and then the report of a musket was heard; sometimes a Greek cap, not unoften mistaken for a turban, peered above the precipice that overlooked the road frequent alarms were given, but she was frightened by none. Her large eyes dilated and darkened as she looked towards the danger pointed out--and she drew nearer the litter, as a lonely mother might to the cradle of her child, when in the stillness of night some ravenous beast intruded on a savage solitude; but she never spoke, except to point out the mistakes she was the first to perceive--or to order the men to proceed lightly, but without fear--nor to allow their progress to be checked by vain alarms. At length the seashore was gained, and Falkner at last placed on the deck of the vessel, reposing after the torture which, despite every care, the journey had inflicted. Already Elizabeth believed that he was saved--and yet, one glance at his wan face and emaciated figure reawakened every fear. He looked, and all around believed him to be, a dying man. CHAPTER XI Arrived at Zante, placed in a cool and pleasant chamber, attended by a skilful surgeon, and watched over by the unsleeping vigilance of Elizabeth, Falkner slowly receded from the shadow of death, whose livid hue had sat upon his countenance. Still health was far. His wound was attended by bad symptoms, and the fever eluded every attempt to dislodge it from his frame. He was but half saved from the grave; emaciated and feeble, his disorder even tried to vanquish his mind; but that resisted with more energy than his prostrate body. The death he had gone out to seek he awaited with courage, yet he no longer expressed an impatience of existence, but struggled to support with manly fortitude at once the inroads of disease and the long-nourished sickness of his soul.