On coming at last to that part of the beach where Vytal was giving instructions to the arquebusiers, he paused, and, keeping his canoe several paces from shore, spoke quickly to the soldier. “I am going,” he said, pointing with his paddle to the eastward, “away, anywhere, far away.” Vytal turned in surprise. “You’re mad.” The other smiled absently, and, waving his wooden blade, held it out toward the forest. “Yes, delightfully mad. Devilish Winginas over there—saw them my own self when I started to go away to the mainland. Long line of red demons waiting—demons ’stremely like those Ralph Contempt described—all waiting to capture the town. You’d better have a care and come away. I’m going away—anywhere—any place whatever, out into the darkness—through the inlet—over the sea—away from it all, from all the danger and trouble, all the nightmares and remorse. I’ve spent my life retreating, now I’ll retreat once more—once more.” The moonlight, falling across his face, showed a look so despairing, haunted, and yet drunkenly cheerful, that for a moment Vytal stood transfixed, staring at him, as at an apparition of the night. The bloodshot eyes were wide open and wet with maudlin tears; the hair was dishevelled and damp with the sweat of terror. Yet even now there was a certain weird beauty in the face, a peculiar and exquisite refinement. But from behind the beauty a despicable soul looked out of the eyes, so that even Vytal shuddered as he saw their glance. Courage stood face to face with naked Fear. With a look of disgust, Vytal glanced about for another boat, but none was near them. Slowly the canoe drifted from the shore, its occupant bidding farewell to Vytal with a laugh that died in a wail. “Return, or I shoot,” said the soldier, sternly. But at this the paddle splashed frantically, and the canoe, now whirling about, now darting out to sea, went farther and farther from the land. Vytal, for once, hesitated. To shoot was perhaps to kill the man, while to refrain from shooting was almost to countenance his suicide. As a compromise between these two alternatives the soldier took an arquebus from one of his men and fired in the air. For a second the canoe paused in its outward course, then shot far seaward, and the man, wildly waving his paddle, either in triumph or expostulation, staggered to his feet. At this the frail craft so careened and trembled that before he could stand fully erect a torrent of water rushed in across the gunwale, and Vytal, aghast on the shore, just distinguished his figure, as, with a piercing cry, he tottered, fell sideways, and sank beneath the surface. “He cannot swim,” said one of the arquebusiers, “any better than a gobbet of lead.”