sea, she no longer heard
the murmur of the waves, the occasional rattling of a pebble, as it
rolled down some steep incline. More and more unreal did the whole
situation seem. It was impossible that she, Marguerite Blakeney, the
queen of London society, should actually be sitting here on this bit
of lonely coast, in the middle of the night, side by side with a most
bitter enemy; and oh! it was not possible that somewhere, not many
hundred feet away perhaps, from where she stood, the being she had once
despised, but who now, in every moment of this weird, dreamlike
life, became more and more dear--it was not possible that HE was
unconsciously, even now walking to his doom, whilst she did nothing to
save him.

Why did she not with unearthly screams, that would re-echo from one end
of the lonely beach to the other, send out a warning to him to desist,
to retrace his steps, for death lurked here whilst he advanced? Once or
twice the screams rose to her throat--as if my instinct: then, before
her eyes there stood the awful alternative: her brother and those three
men shot before her eyes, practically by her orders: she their murderer.

Oh! that fiend in human shape, next to her, knew human--female--nature
well. He had played upon her feelings as a skilful musician plays upon
an instrument. He had gauged her very thoughts to a nicety.

She could not give that signal--for she was weak, and she was a woman.
How could she deliberately order Armand to be shot before her eyes, to
have his dear blood upon her head, he dying perhaps with a curse on her,
upon his lips. And little Suzanne's father, too! he, and old man; and
the others!--oh! it was all too, too horrible.

Wait! wait! wait! how long? The early morning hours sped on, and yet
it was not dawn: the sea continued its incessant mournful murmur, the
autumnal breeze sighed gently in the night: the lonely beach was silent,
even as the grave.

Suddenly from somewhere, not very far away, a cheerful, strong voice was
heard singing "God save the King!"

CHAPTER XXX THE SCHOONER

Marguerite's aching heart stood still. She felt, more than she heard,
the men on the watch preparing for the fight. Her senses told her that
each, with sword in hand, was crouching, ready for the spring.

The voice came nearer and nearer; in the vast immensity of these lonely
cliffs, with the loud murmur of the sea below, it was impossible to say
how near, or how far, nor yet from which di