ing them back to the ledge, and there was a note of menace in his
tired tones. And mingling with his voice was the voice of a woman of the
camp, raised in shrill complaint. Milo stepped to the picture and
listened.

"I tell ye the fiend has tricked ye, Stumpy!" the woman cried.

"Tricked me? Have a care how ye talk that way, woman!" Stumpy's voice
replied warningly.

"Aye, tricked ye and me and all of us! Even now--come to the cliff, and
I'll show ye."

The scrambling of heavy feet could be heard in the gallery as men rushed
out in answer. How many men Milo could not determine; but fewer than had
followed Stumpy into the forest in chase of their broken foes. The
slaves at the treasure-chests paused in their work, alarm on their
shining faces, looking ever toward Milo for instructions.

Milo ran back through the great chamber and out by the tunnel to the
cliff, peering around for Stumpy and hoping to see the schooner putting
back.

Without Dolores he was at a loss; yet he was not ready to leave his
charge to be gazed upon by untried eyes. His breast swelled nigh to
bursting at sight of the schooner. The Feu Follette was but half a mile
away in a straight line from the cliff; she had been tacking against a
light breeze and flood tide around the Point, and while she had sailed
several miles through the water, she had but just gained past the face
of the cliff. And far from returning, she sailed farther and farther
away as he watched, nursed with such skill of sheet and helm as proved
to Milo's seamanly eye that her people would never return of their free
will. And what of Dolores? His condor's vision picked her out as soon as
the schooner. Her gleaming arms and shoulders swept rhythmically over
and over, cleaving the sea easily and smoothly, her lustrous hair
streaming behind her, and the sun glinting brightly from the gold
circlet around her head. She was gaining foot by foot, and Milo keenly
scrutinized the schooner for signs of surrender. There were none. At the
schooner's rail three heads were visible; but Milo knew neither belonged
to Venner nor Pearse. That persuaded him that the schooner was unlikely
to come back. And the even, tireless manner in which Dolores swam
convinced him that she would follow to the end. Yet he would not utterly
believe she had deserted him. He glared around for the men whose voices
he heard now, raised in anger in chorus with the voices of the woman and
her companions. Stumpy stepped