his strength was
going. He allowed himself to float for a few minutes, and in the silence
felt convinced that some one was pursuing him. But what nonsense it was
in such darkness to make such an attempt. Benedetto now allowed himself
to be carried on by the current, crossing the river obliquely, and
managed to make no noise whatever as he swam. And yet as he listened he
heard the same sound behind him at about the same distance. And now
Benedetto beheld the shore. In a few minutes he would be safe, and when
on firm ground he could look out for himself. He sneered to himself.
What nonsense all this talk was of punishment for crime. He had managed
to escape so far! Finally he stood on the shore. He heard a cry from the
water. He understood it. It came from his pursuer, who was now near
enough to see that his prey had escaped him. He was right.

Sanselme had not lost sight of Benedetto, and had felt sure of catching
him; but he had been struck on the shoulder by a piece of floating wood.
The pain was excessive, and he lost his power of swimming. In this
moment Benedetto escaped him. He could dimly see his form on the shore,
and then the man's shadow was lost in the shadow of the woods. Sanselme
uttered a groan. This man had killed Jane, and would now go unpunished.
Up to this moment the former convict had been sustained by unnatural
strength, but now this strength was gone. He could do no more and
believed himself to be dying. Suddenly he felt something within reach of
the hands with which he was beating the water like a drowning dog. It
was a rope. A schooner had been wrecked here and a rope was hanging from
its broken hull. Sanselme clung to it with the energy of despair, and by
it raised himself on board the schooner and fell on the deck utterly
exhausted, morally and physically.

Suddenly he uttered a wild cry. He had been looking intently at the spot
where he had seen Benedetto disappear. He saw the man's shadow again,
but it was not alone. With it was something white, that looked like a
spectre. And the spectre was gliding over the ground in the direction of
the wreck on which Sanselme was crouching.

What was it? One form was certainly Benedetto's; but the spectre--was it
anything more than the fog that rises at dawn along the riverside? Not
so--it was a phantom; the terrible resurrection of the Past.

Benedetto had run toward the wood, believing that there he would be
safe. Suddenly his heart stood still, for be