It is strange, but as she looks she sees the same remarkable resemblance in this girl to Bernie Fontenoy, which Gloria had remarked the previous night. Certainly it is strange, very strange. There is a long-drawn sigh, and then a struggle for breath. Léonie clutches the air with her hands, and her lips move. “I am stifling,” she gasps; “don’t choke me, don’t, please don’t! Let me breathe, please let me breathe!” The doctor raises her up slightly, and again Léonie sighs. Then she draws a long breath. “I love you,” she says softly; “I love you, Gloria. I love God, too. I wish I hadn’t betrayed you now. But you have forgiven me, you have been kind to me, you have kissed me. Oh! those waves, those dreadful waves! They will kill you; you have given me the life-belt, and you have not got one. Take it off, Gloria. Put it on yourself and leave me. I don’t mind drowning. I would like to drown for you. Let me kiss you first. Let me sleep now; let me die.” Her hitherto fixed and staring eyes shoot with a gleam of returning intelligence. She closes them, and her head falls forward. “She will sleep now,” observes the doctor, as he lays her down and turns her on her side, “and when she awakes she will be all right. A marvellous recovery. She must have wonderful vitality in her. We will leave her now quiet, Lady Flora. The yacht is in motion again. Do we continue the search?” “Yes, but along the coast. I must go now, doctor. You will let me know later how the patient is, won’t you?” “Certainly,” he answers cheerfully. Flora returns on deck. Léonie’s words have puzzled her. They were clearly addressed to Gloria, and yet these disjointed utterances can convey but one interpretation of her fate. Gladly would Flora swallow a grain of hope, but she knows that it would only make the reality harder to bear, a reality which she has faced and accepted already. “Gloria,” she whispers, “if you can hear me now, you will know how true was Flora’s friendship. God help me, and I will clear your name of that foul charge laid to your door. Léonie may know something of it, and she will tell me, for on the threshold of death has she not said that she loves you?” Brave, noble Flora! Self is buried in those generous words. She never pauses to think of the danger in which she stands, or the trouble which she must suffer. But Flora is heroic. The yacht is gliding into Moidart’s Loch, and again the lifeboat cutter is manned and lowered. Flora has determined to search the whole shore within the radius of the drifting inland current, which long experience of these coasts has taught her, draws wrecks thereto.