protectress, his glimpse of Heaven. She had given him food when he was
starving, and had believed in him when the world--the world of four--had
looked coldly on him. He would have died for her, and, for love of her,
hoped for the vessel which should take her back to freedom and give him
again into bondage.

But the days stole on, and no vessel appeared. Each day they eagerly
scanned the watery horizon; each day they longed to behold the bowsprit
of the returning Ladybird glide past the jutting rock that shut out the
view of the harbour--but in vain. Mrs. Vickers's illness increased,
and the stock of provisions began to run short. Dawes talked of putting
himself and Frere on half allowance. It was evident that, unless succour
came in a few days, they must starve.

Frere mooted all sorts of wild plans for obtaining food. He would make
a journey to the settlement, and, swimming the estuary, search if haply
any casks of biscuit had been left behind in the hurry of departure. He
would set springes for the seagulls, and snare the pigeons at Liberty
Point. But all these proved impracticable, and with blank faces they
watched their bag of flour grow smaller and smaller daily. Then the
notion of escape was broached. Could they construct a raft? Impossible
without nails or ropes. Could they build a boat? Equally impossible for
the same reason. Could they raise a fire sufficient to signal a ship?
Easily; but what ship would come within reach of that doubly-desolate
spot? Nothing could be done but wait for a vessel, which was sure to
come for them sooner or later; and, growing weaker day by day, they
waited.

One morning Sylvia was sitting in the sun reading the "English History",
which, by the accident of fright, she had brought with her on the night
of the mutiny. "Mr. Frere," said she, suddenly, "what is an alchemist?"

"A man who makes gold," was Frere's not very accurate definition.

"Do you know one?"

"No."

"Do you, Mr. Dawes?"

"I knew a man once who thought himself one."

"What! A man who made gold?"

"After a fashion."

"But did he make gold?" persisted Sylvia.

"No, not absolutely make it. But he was, in his worship of money, an
alchemist for all that."

"What became of him?"

"I don't know," said Dawes, with so much constraint in his tone that the
child instinctively turned the subject.

"Then, alchemy is a very old art?"

"Oh, yes."

"Did the Ancient Britons know it?"

"No, not as old as that