he cried wildly. "Are you men, to desert them! Oh, if
you have any feelings of humanity, turn back," and, rising to her feet,
she shouted out at the top of her voice, "Captain Villari, Captain
Villari, for God's sake call the boat back!"

But no notice was taken, and a feeling of terror seized her when the
brutal Hutton bade her "sit down and take it easy."

As Villari stood watching the disappearing boat Mrs. Marston, followed
by the girl Serena carrying her baby, came on deck.

"What is wrong?" she asked anxiously. "Why has the boat gone? What does
it mean?" and Yillari saw that she was trembling.

"Return to your cabin, Mrs. Marston. No harm shall come to you.
To-morrow morning I shall tell you why I have done this."

A glimmering of the truth came to her, and she tried to speak, but no
words came to her lips, as in a dazed manner she took the infant from
Serena, and pressing it tightly to her bosom stepped back from him with
horror, contempt, and blazing anger shining from her beautiful eyes.

"Go below, I beg you," said Villari huskily. "Here, girl, take this,
and give it to your mistress when you go below," and he placed a loaded
Colt's pistol in the girl's hand. "No one shall enter the cabin till
to-morrow morning. You can shoot the first man who puts his foot on the
companion stairs."

CHAPTER XVIII

A hot, blazing, and windless day, so hot that the branches of the
coco-palms, which at early morn had swished and merrily swayed to the
trade wind, now hung limp and motionless, as if they had suffered from
a long tropical drought instead of merely a few hours' cessation of the
brave, cool breeze, which for nine months out of twelve for ever made
symphony in their plumed crests.

On the shady verandah of a small but well-built native house Amy Marston
was seated talking to an old, snowy-haired white man, whose bright but
wrinkled face was tanned to the colour of dark leather by fifty years of
constant exposure to a South Sea sun.

"Don't you worry, ma'am. A ship is bound to come along here some time or
another, an' you mustn't repine, but trust to God's will."

"Indeed I try hard not to repine, Mr. Manning. When I think of all that
has happened since that night, seven months ago, I have much for which
to thank God. I am alive and well, my child has been spared to me, and
in you, on this lonely island, I have found a good, kind friend, to whom
I shall be ever grateful."

"That's the right way to l