ed nor
desired any. His orders were to follow the boat, and stand in as near the
Ile Nou as possible without arousing attention on shore; there to wait
until the launch returned, or to approach still closer to the island, if
pursuit rendered it advisable. These orders Virginia knew he would obey
to the letter; and she knew also, though no word had been spoken to her
on the subject, that the little cannon, which had been silent since the
_Bella Cuba_ had been a lightly armoured despatch-boat in the
American-Spanish War, were ready to speak to-night, if worst came to
worst.

It was that vague "worst" that troubled Virginia's soul as, almost
soundlessly, the heart of the _Bella Cuba_ began to beat, and she glided
through the glimmering water. If only one could know exactly where and
how to expect the blow, the thought that it might fall would be more
bearable, the girl felt. But one of many things might happen to wreck
their hopes; and failure now probably meant failure forever.

Maxime Dalahaide might be too ill to make the attempt to-night, or he
might be watched in the act of making it. The men in the launch might
miss seeing him, even if he had contrived to escape from the hospital and
gain the beach. Or his flight might be discovered, and the launch only
arrive near the shore in time for its occupants to see him dragged back
to the old life, with all its past horrors, and many new ones added by
way of punishment. Possibly the coral reefs and jagged rocks might
prevent the launch getting close to shore, and Maxime would have to swim
out to it. Then, there were the sharks. Virginia had already seen two or
three to-day--hideous, black shapes swimming far down below the surface
of the clear water--and she shuddered as she remembered the great snouts
and cold, evil eyes of the man-eaters. What was that the Commandant had
said in the afternoon? "The sharks are the best guardians the Ile Nou can
have." Were those horrible watch-dogs of the sea on the lookout now?

At the same moment, the same thought was in the minds of Roger Broom and
George Trent, as the little electric launch rounded the point of rock and
lost sight of the _Bella Cuba_. The water, as they looked toward the Ile
Nou, which must be their destination, was a flood of molten silver poured
from the white-hot furnace of the full moon. They knew how black the
launch must be on this sheet of radiance, how conspicuous an object to
watchful eyes on shore; and thoug