Two years had elapsed since the night when Barbara had been carried off to perish, as Paul believed, in the engulfing of Castel Nuovo. A fishing-barque passing by next morning had taken Paul from the island; its arrival was timely, for the vessel had scarcely gone half-a-mile when the sea became violently agitated, and Isola Sacra itself disappeared beneath the waves. The frightened fishermen, perceiving that the force of the earthquake was not yet spent, refused to put in on the Dalmatian coast, believing it to be safer on water than on land. For four-and-twenty hours they kept out on the deep, disembarking only when they deemed the peril past. The moment Paul touched land he made his way to the vicinity of Castel Nuovo, and found its site covered by the sea. Must he believe that the last resting-place of Barbara was fathoms deep below these waves? He rowed to and fro over the spot, peering through the singularly transparent water, and sometimes fancying that he could discern the ghostly outline of towers and battlements. Had Barbara really been lodged at Castel Nuovo during the night of the earthquake, or at some other place? Inquiries carried on by him within a wide area around Castel Nuovo yielded no tidings as to the missing maiden. Barbara, Jacintha, Lambro, were like the shadows of a past dream. Blank despair settled upon Paul. Life seemed scarcely worth living. Then came news that the British troops stationed at Corfu had been ordered to India to suppress a rising among the hill-tribes of the frontier. Paul, whose first impulse had been to resign his commission, now decided to accompany his regiment lest his retirement on the eve of war should be attributed to a spirit of cowardice. The fierce thrill of fighting might help to drown the memory of Barbara--for a time. And since life without her was hard to bear, he cherished the hope that an Afghan spear might give him the death he desired. On his arrival at Corfu, Paul learned that, owing to the death of a wealthy aunt, he was now master of considerable landed property in Kent, subject to the condition that he should assume his relative's name of Woodville. Paul mechanically acquiesced, and was henceforth gazetted as "Captain Woodville." "Cressingham or Woodville, what matters?" he said. "Soon to be a little dust, I hope." This legal formality over, he hurried off to India. In the campaign that followed he did not die; on the contrary, he lived to gain a brilliant reputation,--a reputation destined, though he foresaw it not, to stand him in good stead during a political crisis of the future. In a small border-fortress he found himself one of a garrison of four hundred men besieged by an Afghan force twenty times its own number. It was winter, and the mountain-passes were filled with snow. Weeks must elapse ere relief could come. Scantily provided with artillery, their provisions running out, sleepless from incessant attacks, the heroic little band kept grimly to the work.