The whole face had a different look. It was rising higher. The hands were braced upon the grating, pushing the body up. They were accustomed to the loosed havoc of bestiality which Stackhouse had left upon his features--but this that looked out from his eyes was knit and intent. Fleury’s hand groped back. “It will not answer me,” he was saying. “This is different. It will not obey me. Take my hand, Bellair.... Yes, and take hers with the other. We must drive it out.” Weariness more than death was in the speech. He had struggled for hours. It was the voice of a man who had fought to his soul’s end. Bellair held his hand and the woman’s, but felt himself the betrayer. This had come _for him_! He was the prophet lying still while the sailors deliberated. They must cast him into the sea, before this thing could be willed into quiescence. Concentration on his part was broken by this conviction. The body of Stackhouse was lifted to its knees--the different face looking out of the eyes. They sat before it like terrified children; the eyes found them one after another, steadily, with unearthly frigid humour, like some creative force of evil, integrated of the ages, charged with intrepid will, a ruling visitant that would tarry but an instant for the climax. It was not human, save in the shape and feature for their recognition; its difference from the human was its frank knowing destructiveness. Humanity is mainly unconscious of the processes of evil; _this had chosen_. This was of the pull of the earth, and knew its power. It seemed known to Bellair as if from some ancient meeting. He could never have remembered, however, without this return. It was devoid of sex, which seemed to bring to him some old deep problem that took its place with his ineffable fear of the presence. So Bellair sat between them, holding their hands, but powerless to help.... It was higher, looking out of the eyes of the body, in strange solution with the fallen humanity of the face they knew. And Bellair knew _he_ was responsible. “You must depart. You do not belong here,” a voice said. Bellair could not tell if it were Fleury’s or the woman’s or his own. It may have been merely a thought. The thing had uprisen now. It lurched in the sway of the boat. Fleury and he were standing to meet the body that hurled itself forward.... Water dashed over them. They were beneath the monster. Bellair felt more than the crush of the weight of flesh, a force kindred to electricity, but not electric, a smothering defiling dynamics, that despoiled him by the low, cold depth of its vibration, rather than by the fierce fury of it. Then he thought of the woman’s child. It came to him like a pure gleam. The child must live. The thought was very real, out of the self, but not _for_ self.... It seemed that he heard the heart of Stackhouse break, and the demon hiss away. Bellair looked up from the bottom of the boat. The woman’s face was very close, his face between her hands.