"Oh!" groaned her father, as they hurried on down the path, "for pity's sake, try, my child, try." "Yes, I remember," she cried at last--"Paul." "Dick Paul--the man who sailed with us to the rocks near Scilly?" "Yes, yes!" "Ha! then if he has escaped so far he will be there." "Do you know which is his cottage?" "Yes, I know. Quick, girl, quick!" They almost ran down the rest of the way, each looking excitedly about in the expectation of there being a hue and cry, and of seeing the fugitive rush by, hunted by a senseless crowd, eager to see him caught. But all was perfectly still, the great stars shone down on the sleepy place, the lights burned in windows here and there, and as they reached a turn where the harbour lay before them the light at the mouth shone out like a lurid, fiery eye, staining the calm water with a patch of light, which seemed weird and strange amidst the spangled gleams reflected from the stars. Hardly a sound, till a swing door was opened a short distance in front, and there floated out in harmony one of the West-country ditties the fishermen loved to sing. The door swung to, and the part-song became a murmur. Vine gripped his daughter's hand with spasmodic violence, but she did not wince. There was a pain, an agony in her breast which neutralised all other, as she hurried on by her father's side, thinking now of her erring brother, now of Duncan Leslie. That dream, that growing love which she had tremblingly avowed to herself she felt for the frank, manly young mine-owner, was over, was crushed out, with all its bright-hued hopes of happiness; but he had said he loved her, and offered his aid. Why was he not there now to help, when her brother was in such peril? Why was he not there? The answer came like a dull blow. She had reviled him, insulted him, and driven him away. Then her heart replied: He loves me, he will forgive my hasty words, and will save my brother if I humble myself and ask. She started back to the reality from what seemed a dream, as her father hurried on along by a row of ill-built, rugged cottages on the cliff. "It is in one of these," he said huskily, "but I cannot recall which." As he hesitated one of the doors was opened, and a great, burly merman appeared, pipe in mouth. "Dick Paul's," he said, in answer to a question, "first door furder on. Fine night, master." "Yes, yes; thank you, thank you," cried Vine hastily. "But he arn't at home." "What?" "Him and four more went out at sundown to shoot their nets." Vine uttered a low groan. "Good-night!" said the man, and he moved off. "Stop!" cried Vine, and the man's heavy boots ceased to clatter on the rugged pebbles with which the way was paved. "Call me, Master Vine?" "Yes. You know me?" "Know you? Ay, and the young lady too. Liza Perrow's Uncle Bob. Didn't I take you 'long the coast one day?" "Yes, yes, of course," said Vine hastily. "Look here, my man; you have a boat."