Looking toward the shore they saw a dozen boats, all occupied by Spanish soldiers in pursuit of a little sailboat or sloop that, taking advantage of the night wind was endeavoring to slip out of the harbor, being possibly a smuggler engaged in defying the severe duties placed upon all imports by Spanish laws. Fortune seemed never to tire of aiding their cause--it was one chance in a thousand that this smuggler should start just at such a moment, and divert the attention of the enraged Spaniards. Perhaps, however, a guilty conscience had something to do with the matter, for those on board the _contrabandista_ boat must have believed the tremendous row ashore had to do with their presence in the bay, and spreading their white wings they had flown seaward. Several volleys were fired after them by the soldiers, and there came a deep boom or two later announcing that the fort commanding the entrance to the bay had taken a few chances at the escaping boat; but the moon had again plunged behind the clouds, and besides, those on board the sloop knew every foot of the offing so that the way to escape was open. But Roderic, even though the yacht was in motion, and there was more or less danger of a bombardment from the forts, had lost all interest in the result. He was hovering over the berth where they had laid Georgia, for upon reaching the deck the girl had fainted in his arms--she had been wounded, perhaps by the glancing bullet that came from the guard's Mauser when he took his last shot. All were dismayed to discover it, and Roderic felt a dumb anguish creeping over his heart as he awaited the doctor's report. It was a serious wound, with the chances against her surviving in such a warm climate. The truth almost paralyzed poor Roderic--for this had he labored, that Leon should be saved and his sister yield up her bright young life? Heaven alone knows what he suffered during the weary hours of suspense. When the dread summons came and he knew he had lost her, the awful nature of the blow almost crushed him. For once in his life he felt like cursing the Providence that rules over all. Georgia passed away with her arm about his neck, her head pillowed on his breast, and her last whispered words were: "How I love you, my Roderic--do not quite forget the poor daughter of Porto Rico!" As if he could forget--so long as life remained her image must always be enshrined in his heart. Perhaps it was just as well for his future happiness--love like Georgia's, so hot and inflammable, does not always bring that peace and content of mind which most men who speak the English tongue desire as their portion--it would mean an iceberg, a volcano--cold one hour and scorching the next. Yes, perhaps Providence ordered it for the best.