“Pray. Miss Ber’l, pray!” she cried loudly, as if the girl could hear her. “Pray for de grave, for we can’t help you.” Outside in the darkness of the drawing-room, Andria lay in a low chair, too exhausted to think, and felt a sudden, humble touch on her arm. The old man fell on his knees beside her and began to pour out a torrent of whispered Spanish. Half of it she knew to be questions, but she could not answer them, and, dazed, she shook her head. With a hoarse cry of hopeless disappointment, the poor wretch leaped to his feet, and before she could call to Salome, was gone through the open door. Andria sat up and put her hands to her aching head. It might be months before Heriot was himself again, and by that time what could they do? There was a wounded man, herself, a black servant, and a madman to cope with Raimond Erle, who was already out of reach. With such poor allies and no money, how could she hope to reach England in time--or ever? With a gesture of sheer despair, she sank back again and closed her eyes. The very thing that would keep Raimond and Beryl apart she had never told the girl. She cursed her cowardice that could not speak out, that had solved itself by that photograph in a sealed envelope. She knew she had never opened it by the very way she had been bewildered, and looked from one to the other. It was useless now; she would not even look for the thing, that must be lying in Beryl’s room somewhere. She never wanted to see it again. It was too tangible a reminder of her trust that she had not kept from cowardly reluctance to speak her own shame. In the dark, hushed room there sounded the faint breathing of the wounded man and a low sobbing that came from the very depths of a woman’s broken, desolate heart. CHAPTER XXXII. AN OLD PHOTOGRAPH. “It’s no use,” thought Beryl Corselas, “nothing was ever any use. They’ve got us, body and soul, again.” She stared at the sea through the open port-hole, as if it would help her to think. How long had she lain in this hot, close cabin, hearing the endless jar of the screw and the wash of stormy water on the closed port-hole? And where was Andria? “She opened the shutters and pulled me away, and he called her things. Oh, I can’t remember! But I’m on the yacht again. She must be here, too, for unless I dreamed it, I saw Amelia Jane in the cabin. I must get up and find her. Surely, surely they would never leave her behind!” She sat up, and did not even notice how steady the ship was, though it was only that which had revived her. Between a slight concussion of the brain and being the very worst sailor possible, things had reason to be hazy to her. But as she looked about for her shoes and stockings the door opened softly and Amelia Jane’s face peered in. “Amelia!” cried Beryl. “Then I wasn’t dreaming. You were here! Where’s Miss Holbeach? Tell her I want her.” The woman’s face changed convulsively. “You knows,” she said rudely; “what’s the good of askin’ me?”