A thrill ran through him again for there, not thirty feet below him, in a complete _cul-de-sac_ among the rocks stood Lucille, her face toward him, her wrist thrust through the handle of the bag, and her fingers with her delicate gloves all torn, cramped as it were into the rough rock on either side, as, with her head thrown back and her body bowed, she seemed to be at one and the same time clinging desperately to the rock and forcing herself as far back as she could from the bareheaded man who stood a couple of paces away, his arms crossed upon a breast-high stone between them, and his chin upon them as he gazed with a grim satisfaction at the terror-convulsed face before him. Onslow grasped the position, and he saw, too, something glitter--it was the point of a knife which appeared between the rock and the man’s elbow. “And I can do no more,” groaned Onslow to himself. At that moment he made an effort to try and climb down, and a terrible spasm at his breast made him sink down again, panting. But his movement had caught Lucille’s eye, and she glanced up wildly and uttered a shriek. “Frank! Frank!” she cried; “help, help, he is mad.” The man looked up and uttered a loud laugh, as he said calmly, in good English: “No, monsieur, I am not mad. I am this woman’s fate.” “No, no,” shrieked Lucille, about whose feet the waves were now surging, but she dared not stir lest the man should spring upon her with that knife. “Frank, for God’s sake, help! He will kill me.” “Yes,” said the man, “as you killed me, body and soul, and buried me in a dungeon that was like a tomb.” “No, no!” shrieked Lucille. “Help, Frank! You loved me once.” “Ha! ha!” cried the man, unfolding his arms, and glaring at Frank. “Another lover! Poor wretch, I pity you. She has wrecked you as she wrecked me.” “No, no,” cried the wretched woman hoarsely. “Help! help!” “There is no help, woman,” thundered the man. “The end has come. Monsieur, I claim the right of punishment. I am her husband. Bah! you can do nothing. It is her fate!” “And so,” he continued, as he turned his terrible eyes on the shrinking woman, “you saw me away there yonder, and fled here. Fool! I knew you would come here to steal away my little Lucille--curse you! Why did I let her bear your name? You would have stolen her away, not that you loved her--you never loved, you cannot--and it was to plant another sting, another poisoned arrow in the breast of the poor trusting wretch who loved you, idolized you, and committed crime for your sake. But you could not escape me longer. I followed you from yonder town, I followed you step by step till I have you here before me dying--do you hear, wretch--dying before my eyes.” “No, no, for pity’s sake!” she shrieked, her thin voice hardly rising above the roar of the coming tide. “Frank, call for help, he will murder me!”