The other tumbled back into his oars. Up sprang his foot. The pistol was kicked out of the boy's hand, and the Gentleman was on him. "O, you are a villain, Little Chap!" chuckled a voice in the lad's ear. For a moment they hugged, the boat rocking beneath them. "Can you swim?" came the voice at his ear. "Yes," gurgled the lad, and as he felt the boat going sucked in a breath. "Then shift for yourself. I can't." As the waters closed about them the arms of the Gentleman loosed their hold. CHAPTER XLIII A BLACK BORDERER TO THE RESCUE I A boy was wading shoreward dizzily. As he surged through the water, his body made long rippling waves. He watched them with dull fascination, pointing. Then he began to whimper peevishly. He was tired, he was cold. The shore waved up and down before his eyes. He knew he couldn't do it. From behind him a yell penetrated his dying mind. It stopped him dead. He was a little child, nightmare-bound. Waving to and fro, the water to his knees, he stretched both arms shoreward. "Mother!" he wailed. A shout answered him. Some one was crashing down the shingle, racing across the sand, and plunging through the water towards him. The boy began to titter. "Come on, Kit! come on!" came a rousing voice. "Don't look behind you! That's the style! Come on!" What was this black splashing figure, sword in hand? Was it the Angel of Death in full regimentals? Surely he recognised the face beneath the shako? "You aren't mother," the boy giggled, swaying. A strong arm was round him; a body, firm and full of life, was pressed against his dying one; a voice, quickening as the Spring, was in his ear. "Splendid, Kit! Well done indeed! Lean on me. Lots o time." "Have the soldiers come?" sobbed the boy, struggling forward. "One has," came the sturdy voice--"a Black Borderer." They waded through the shallows, the ripples breaking prettily about them. Behind them a fierce voice sang out an order. The galley, which had brought up with a bump against the submerged longboat, had hoisted the Gentleman on board, and was swooping in pursuit. The boy heard the beat of the oars, and sank on his knees at the edge of the sea. "I can't, sir. Take the bag. O go on!" Two strong arms clutched him, and he was hoisted up. All things were swimming away from him. The last thing he knew was that he was in somebody's arms, and the somebody was running. II The boat swept shoreward. A man with a musket, standing in the bows, was about to fire at the fugitives. A sharp voice stayed him. "_Ne tirez point! Nous les prendrons vivants. Ce n'est qu'un seul homme et le gosse._" A bugle from the shingle-bank retorted defiantly. "_Halte!_" The boat stopped short. The crew looked over their shoulders. _"Les soldats!"_ Upon the ridge a shako bobbed up. A figure in uniform rose and ran at it "Keep your eads down there all along the line!" it shouted. "Wait till I give the word, Royal Stand-backs."