Dawn flushed into full daylight as the sun rose upon the ruined city. Morning dragged its length to midday and midday merged in afternoon. And the workers toiled on doggedly, burrowing, hewing, climbing, flinging their energies, risking their lives, against the inanimate barriers of destruction. Italian and Frenchman, Englishman and Russian vied with each other in deeds of humanity against the common foe. Nor was that foe content with the victory already won. Further shocks furrowed the stricken shores: ruin became more complete, danger more menacing, but the toilers worked on. Aylmer's rescuers had gone aboard their ship and had been replaced by a new relay. He himself remained. The pressing needs of those who lay, as he had lain, in living tombs around him were first in his mind. But another thought was ceaseless. Certainty--that was what he asked. Certainty of Landon's fate. He scarcely allowed himself to realize how he hoped--_yearned_--to know definitely that Landon was dead. He simply contemplated it as a matter of completeness, as news that would bring infinite relief to those on board _The Morning Star_. If he were alive? He set his lips grimly. Though law was suspended, order out of gear, Landon should meet his deserts. If not by instruments of Italian justice, then by Aylmer's own hands--by the law of retribution, not the law of revenge. He dropped the mattock which he had been wielding. He stood up and straightened himself, turning his eyes from the wearying expanse of wreckage towards the sea. A boat was running up beside the ruined jetty. Before the mooring ropes were cast ashore a tall figure leaped from it--a figure clad in a _soutane_. Aylmer made an exclamation, hesitated, and then clambered down the walls and ran across the uneven flags, holding out his hand. Padre Sigismondi flung up his arms. His gesture was one of incredulous relief. "But the Signora?" he cried, stricken with sudden apprehension. He panted, his eyes were vivid with anxiety. "The Signora?" As Aylmer answered with the one vital word, the priest cried aloud again. He lifted his face towards the sky and made the sign of the cross. "Safe!" he repeated. "Safe! If there was a single hope left to me amid the horrors which have overwhelmed us, it was that. I told myself that God, who allowed me to fail in my duty to you through my arrogant self-confidence, might be saving you in the midst of--and by--this destruction. When I came to myself and found you gone, I writhed. My friend, I cast myself upon the ground in the agonies of my self-reproach. Not to have plumbed the wicked devices of these men--I, who have worked among them a score of years!" Aylmer gripped his hand. "You, yourself?" he inquired. "You come here--how?"