a wife?" he added, a whine in his voice.

"Yes, when she does not want you," Hunt retorted.

"She will want me--when the other is out of the way," the apothecary
answered sullenly.

"Out of the way?"

"Ay; in France, or--there!"--and the apothecary nodded towards the
gibbet on Dymchurch Flat, which they were just approaching. "It is for
her to choose," he added softly. "This side or that!"

"How?"

"If she takes me, Fayle may go hang, or cross the water, or as you
please, so that he go far enough. But if she will have him----"

"Well?" Hunt said; for Eubank paused, squinting horribly.

"She will marry him there!" the apothecary answered, pointing to the
gibbet.

"Ay?"

"I know that he is here," Eubank continued, his voice low, "and he
cannot escape me. She has bubbled the soldiers; they do not know him.
And for aught I know he goes out and in, and no one is the wiser. And
the game may be played as long as you please. But from to-day I am
there."

"You!" Hunt cried.

"To be sure," Eubank answered, letting his ill-concealed triumph appear.
"At the farm. I am the officer. Ah, would you? Mr. Hunt, back! Back, or
I fire."

The smuggler, on the impulse of the moment, had gone near to striking
him down; in face of the pistol and common-sense he lowered his hand,
cursed him, and bade him keep his distance for the cur he was; and so
with the width of the track between them the two rode on, like dogs
ill-coupled, Eubank keeping a squinting watch on Hunt's movements, Hunt
with his face hard set, and a gleam of fear in his eyes.

A little later he spied his daughter waiting and watching for him, on
the dyke near the farm--a lissom, graceful figure, with wind-blown hair
and skirts, visible half a mile away. Possibly he wished then that he
had struck hard and once while the man and he were alone on the Marsh.
But it was too late. She was there, and in a moment the meeting so long
and tenderly anticipated was over, and the girl, gently disengaging
herself with wet cheeks from his arms, turned to his companion.

"You may go, Mr. Eubank," she said austerely. "We do not need you. My
father is at home now."

But the apothecary, cringing and smiling, faltered that he was--that he
was coming to the house.

The words were barely audible, for his courage, not his malice, failed
him under her eyes. At any rate she did not understand. "To our house?"
she said.

"Yes," he answered, mouthing nervously, and looking his me