ading through
the water to the door. She cried again and again, till her cries
became shrieks. In vain. No answer came. Flinging a shawl around her
she went into the outer cabin, and thence ascended to the deck.

No one was there.

No man was at the wheel. No watchers were visible. The vessel was
deserted!

[Illustration: "An Awful Fear Came Over Her."]

Louder and louder she shrieked. Her voice, borne afar over the wide
waste of waters, died out in the distance, but brought no response.
She hurried to the forecastle. The door was open. She called over and
over again. There was no reply. Looking down in the dim morning
twilight she could see plainly that the water had penetrated there.

An awful fear came over her.

The sails were lowered. The boat was gone. No one was on board
besides herself. The schooner was sinking. She had been deserted. She
had been betrayed. She would never see Hilda. Who had betrayed her?
Was Hilda really at Naples? Had she really written that letter and
sent Gualtier to her? A thousand horrid suspicions rushed through her
mind. One thought predominated--_she had been betrayed!_

But why?

CHAPTER XXIX.

TWO NEW CHARACTERS.

In spite of Gualtier's assurances, a steamer was running regularly
between Naples and Marseilles, and the war had made no disturbance in
the promptitude and dispatch of its trips. It belonged to a line
whose ships went on to Malta, touching at Italian ports, and finally
connecting with the steamers of the Peninsular and Oriental Company.
The day after Zillah had left Marseilles one of these left Naples on
its way to the former port, having on hoard the usual number and
variety of passengers.

On the stern of this vessel stood two men, looking out over the water
to where the purple Apennines arose over the Italian coast, where the
grand figure of Vesuvius towered conspicuous, its smoke cloud
floating like a pennon in the air. One of these men was tall,
broad-shouldered, sinewy, with strong square head, massive forehead,
firm chin, and eyes which held in their expression at once gentleness
and determination; no very rare compound in the opinion of some, for
there are those who think that the strongest and boldest natures are
frequently the tenderest. He was a man of about fifty, or perhaps
even sixty, but his years sat lightly on him; and he looked like a
man whom any one might reasonably dread to meet with in a personal
encounter. The other was m