A rusty chain rasped through the hawse-hole, and the vessel swung at anchor. In a small and close compartment in the ship's depths, totally without light, and with her nerves wrought upon by Leboeuf's appalling story, Edmé could only guess at what was happening above her head. She knew that something terrible was taking place. She could hear a confusion of cries and trampling of feet; of hoarse shouts and commands; and she pictured in her imagination scenes quite as horrible as were actually taking place above her. In every wave that splashed against the vessel's side she could see the white face of a struggling, drowning creature, and every sound upon the vessel was the despairing death-note of a fresh victim. Through it all she could see the large face of Leboeuf leering at her with his bleary eyes. To have exchanged one fate for a worse one was to have gained nothing, and in her mental agony she almost envied those who a short time ago had been struggling helplessly in the hands of their executioners, and whose bodies now were quietly sleeping in the waters of the flowing river. A quiet fell upon the vessel. The last cry had been uttered, the last command given, and no sound reached Edmé's ears but the soft plash of the water as it struck under the stern of the boat. Then the remembrance of Leboeuf's face and look became still more vivid. She feared him in spite of all her courage; in spite of her pride that was greater than her courage, she feared him. The knowledge that he was aware of his power and took delight in it made the thought that she would soon have to face him there alone more terrible than her dread of the worst of deaths. A footfall sounded on the floor above her head. That it was not Leboeuf's heavy tread, Edmé was certain. Rather than fall into his hands again she would trust herself to the mercies of the worst ruffian among the executioners, and she struck with her clenched hand a succession of quick knocks upon the trap. The footsteps ceased, and in the stillness that followed Edmé called out to the man above her and told him where to find the opening. In another instant the door was lifted up and she came up into the cabin. "Kill me," she cried out; "throw me into the river if it be your pleasure, but I implore you, do not let"-- The man's hand closed over her mouth, and lifting her in his arms he carried her across the cabin. The room was dark; either Leboeuf had put out the light when he left, or the newcomer had extinguished it, but Edmé saw that he bore her toward the window from which the lattice had been removed. She closed her eyes to meet the end. She felt herself swiftly lifted through the window, and then instead of water her feet struck a firm substance.