I do not know how it was, but Phroso’s words summoned up before my eyes a vision of Beatrice Hipgrave, pursuing her cheerful way through the gaieties of the season--or was she in the country by now?--without wasting very many thoughts on the foolish man who had gone to the horrid island. The picture of her as the lady who waited for a lover, forlorn because he tarried, struck with a bitter amusement on my sense of humour. Phroso saw me smile; her eyes asked a wondering question. I did not answer it, but turned away and walked down to where the boat lay. ‘I suppose,’ I said coldly, ‘that this is the best chance?’ ‘It is the only chance, my lord,’ she answered; but her eyes were still puzzled, and her tone was almost careless, as if the matter of our escape had ceased to be the thing which pressed most urgently on her mind. I could say nothing to enlighten her; not from my lips, which longed to forswear her, could come the slightest word in depreciation of ‘the lady who waited.’ ‘Will you get in, then?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ said Phroso; the joy was gone out of her voice and out of her eyes. I helped her into the boat, then I launched it; when it floated clear on the water of the cave I jumped in myself and took the sculls. Phroso sat silent and now pale-faced in the stern. I struck the water with my blades and the boat moved. A couple of strokes took us across the cave. We reached the mouth. I felt the sun on my neck with its faint early warmth: that is a good feeling and puts heart in a man. ‘Ah, but the sea and the air are good,’ said Phroso. ‘And it is good to be free, my lord.’ I looked at her. The sun had caught her eyes now, and the gleam in them seemed to fire me. I forgot--something that I ought to have remembered. I rested for a moment on my oars, and, leaning forward, said in a low voice: ‘Aye, to be free, and together, Phroso.’ Again came the flash of colour, again the sudden happy dancing of her eyes and the smile that curved in unconquerable wilfulness. I stretched out a hand, and Phroso’s hand stole timidly to meet it. Well--surely the Recording Angel looked away! Thus were we just outside the cave. There rose a straight rock on the left hand, ending in a level top some four feet above our heads. And as our hands approached and our eyes--those quicker foregatherers--met, there came from the top of the rock a laugh, a low chuckle that I knew well. I don’t think I looked up. I looked still at Phroso. As I looked, her colour fled, fright leapt into her eyes, her lips quivered in horror. I knew the truth from her face. ‘Very nice! But what have you done with Cousin Constantine?’ asked Mouraki Pasha. The trap, then, had double jaws, and we had escaped Constantine only to fall into the hands of his master. It was so like Mouraki. I was so much aghast and yet so little surprised, the fall was so sudden, our defeat so ludicrous, that I believed I smiled, as I turned my eyes from Phroso’s and cast a glance at the Pasha.