“Explain! explain! or in another moment God have mercy on your soul!” he exclaimed, drawing in the oar, planting its end heavily on the prow of the skiff, in such a manner that by leaning his weight upon it he could capsize the boat--standing there, glaring upon her. “Philip! Philip! for the Saviour’s sake, sit down,” she cried, wringing her pale fingers in an ecstasy of terror. “Coward! coward! coward! you fear death, and do not fear me nor shame!” said Philip Helmstedt, his eyes burning upon her with a consuming scorn that seemed to dry up her very heart’s blood. “Once more, and for the last time, madam, will you explain?” “Philip! mercy!” “Commend yourself to the mercy of Heaven! I have none!” cried Philip Helmstedt, about to throw his whole weight upon the oar to upset the boat, when Marguerite, with a shriek, sprung up and clasped his knees, exclaiming: “Mercy! Philip! it is not my life I beg at your hands; it were not worth the prayer! but another innocent life, Philip, spare your child,” and fainted at his feet. The boat, shaken by this violent scene, was rocking fearfully, and he had much ado to steady it, while Marguerite lay in a dead heap at his feet. The frenzy of his anger was passing for the present. The announcement that she had just made to him, her swoon and her perfect helplessness, as well as that majestic beauty, against the influence of which he had been struggling through all this scene, combined to sway his frantic purpose. He stood like a man awakened from a nightmare, recovered from a fever, come to himself. After cautiously trimming the boat, and letting it drift until it had spent the violence of the impetus, he took up the oar, turned its head, and rowed swiftly toward the island. Pushing the skiff up upon the sand, he got out and fastened it, and then went to lift Marguerite, who, on being raised, sighed and opened her eyes, and said, a little wildly and incoherently: “You will never be troubled by any more letters, Philip.” “Ah?” “No! and I will never leave you again, Philip.” “I intend that you never shall have the opportunity, my--Marguerite.” She had, with his assistance, risen to her feet, and, leaning on his arm, she suffered herself to be led up the slope toward the house. The whole sky was now overcast and blackened. The wind so buffeted them that Marguerite could scarcely stand, much less walk against it. Philip had to keep his arm around her shoulders, and busy himself with her veil and mantle, that were continually blown and flapped into her face and around her head. By the time they had reached the house, and dispatched Forrest to put the boat away and bring the trunk home, the storm had burst.