"'I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth----'" With a gasp from his own frazzled nerves Jaffrey Bretton pushed mercilessly past him. "Oh, cut it out, Lost Man," he cried. "This isn't death--yet! Kaire's man knows just what to do, and has got a chance to do it--probably--even one or more times yet! Go get the launch ready, you and Alliman! If there's nothing here we can do, we'll go _quick_!" "Where?" stared Lost Man. "Back to our own island, you idiot!" snapped Bretton. "And pack up everything we've got! And catch that coast steamer in the morning! We're going North," he paled, "as fast as we can get there! I want a brain specialist for my little girl!" Stumbling along after Lost Man with his babbling burden in his arms, he stepped down into the waiting launch. [222] Already with his gnarled calloused hands Alliman the outlaw was wringing strange cries from the reluctant engine. Up from a somber shadow in the bow the brown khaki lady lifted a startled but unquestioning face. "Let me hold her!" insisted Lost Man. "I know how to hold 'em--the little lambs!" Like some vaguely parodied picture of "The Good Shepherd" the old man gathered the little limp figure into his arms, and retreated to the stern of the boat. Half resentful, half relieved, Bretton hesitated an instant and then merged himself into the shadowy bow. With a grunt of triumph Alliman started the launch gulfward. With creaks and groans and puffy sighs the old engine rallied to the task. Except for the chop of waves against the bow, the trickle of tides at the stern, no other sound broke the black silence except Lost Man's crooning monotone. "There--there--there--there--there," crooned Lost Man. "There--there--there--there--there!" When he wasn't saying "There--there--there," he seemed to be trying to sing. Very laboriously, very [223] painstakingly, word by word and note by note he was straining very evidently to dig up something from his memory. "Bring to--little children (he struggled) Visions--sweet--of Thee, Guard the sailors tossing (he quavered) On the--the deep blue sea." Along the whole dark shadowy length of the launch, the Outlaw's face alone shone wanly bright and reasonably clear-featured in the flare from the engine. Bloodless as the salt-pork that he fed on, dank-haired as the swamps and glades that encompassed him, brooding on Heaven knows what Past or what Future--a single convulsive tremor passed his pipe-clenched lips. "Say, Boss," he said, "on them home runs of Baker's, was they straight-away hits? Or did they go over some fence?" [224] III IT WAS the Northern March--very cold, very snowy, very blustery, when Daphne woke from her last bad dream. Brisk, bleak, absolutely literal, the frosted roofs and gables of a pleasant suburban landscape gleamed sociably at her through every casement window.