And Loyola--what of Loyola? With a strange, glorious light shining in her splendid eyes, she watched the receding figure of the rolling-stone; there was no misery in her face, only a perfect sweetness of content. Heedless of its consequences to herself, she only thought of her lover's courage, and her spirit leaped within her in a great exultation. To her came the cowboy, asking sadly, "I hope you ain't none raged with me, ma'am? I were playin' the hand for you and Jack." For answer she placed her hand in his and murmured softly: "I understand, Broncho--and I shan't forget," with which the cowboy's troubled face cleared wonderfully. "An' my pard, Jack, ma'm'; I knowed all the time he were right. Any other maverick would ha' weakened, but he didn't. He's all grit, is Jack. I played up the hand for all it was worth, but I knew I was beaten when he fust called me." At this praise of the man she loved the woman fairly beamed upon him; then her eyes turned slowly upon the unconscious form of her husband. Following her glance, Broncho growled gruffly: "Luck's hopped your way to-night, mister. I allow a thunderbolt's bein' constructed to put out your light, an' that's why Providence puts the hobbles on us humans an' blocks our game. I surmise they ain't none ready for you yet. Mebbe their heatin' plant ain't planned so as it reaches high enuff figures for you-alls, an' them pitchfork gents is busy fixin' it." With which characteristic address he stepped to the side of its unconscious object, followed by Loyola. The all-but-hanged scoundrel lay there strangely white and still, his legs crumpled up under him. One glance of his experienced eyes, and the cowboy gave a queer exclamation of surprise. "What is it?" cried the woman anxiously. But, instead of answering, Broncho hurriedly felt under the man's shirt for the beat of his heart. For nearly a minute he held his hand there, whilst Loyola and Bill Benson watched him with a growing look of apprehension; then he slowly drew back the eyelids and revealed a pair of glassy, expressionless eyes. With a recoil of horror Loyola staggered back and fainted, the bluejacket catching her as she fell. Hawksley was dead! "Heart failure, I reckon!" muttered the cowpuncher grimly. "Seems his tickets for the great unknown were taken after all!" And he turned to the unconscious woman, whilst the bosun's mate rushed to the lagoon for water. FOOTNOTES: [12] Tin hats = drunk. [13] This is the name given by sailors to the small windmill noticeable on all Norwegian wooden ships, which is used to pump the water out of them. CHAPTER X "THE _BLACK ADDER_" Jack, sitting hunched up with his face between his hands in a posture of utter despair, looked up dully as he heard the sound of approaching feet; then, as the gloomy procession came out on to the sands, he started to his feet with a cry.