it is quivering now, as though it were not
sure."

"Thank God, if it be not sure! But the hill is cloudy, as I said."

"No, Marie. How droll you are! The hill is not cloudy; even at this
distance one can see something glisten beside the grove of pines."

"I know. It is the White Rock, where King Ovi died."

"Marie, turn your face to me. Your eyes are full of tears. Your heart is
tender. Your tears are for the prisoner who has escaped--the hunted in
the chase."

She shuddered a little and added, "Wherever he is, that long dark finger
on the Hill of Pains will find him out--the remorseless Semaphore."

"No, madame, I am selfish; I weep for myself. Tell me truly, as--as if I
were your own child--was there no cloud, no sudden darkness, out there,
as we looked towards the Hill of Pains."

"None, dear."

"Then--then--madame, I suppose it was my tears that blinded me for the
moment."

"No doubt it was your tears."

But each said in her heart that it was not tears; each said: "Let not
this thing come, O God!" Presently, with a caress, the elder woman left
the room; but the girl remained to watch that gloomy thing upon the Hill
of Pains.

As she stood there, with her fingers clasped upon a letter she had drawn
from her pocket, a voice from among the palms outside floated towards
her.

"He escaped last night; the Semaphore shows that they have got upon
his track. I suppose they'll try to converge upon him before he gets
to Pascal River. Once there he might have a chance of escape; but he'll
need a lot of luck, poor devil!"

Marie's fingers tightened on the letter.

Then another voice replied, and it brought a flush to the cheek of the
girl, a hint of trouble to her eyes. It said: "Is Miss Wyndham here
still?"

"Yes, still here. My wife will be distressed when she leaves us."

"She will not care to go, I should think. The Hotel du Gouverneur spoils
us for all other places in New Caledonia."

"You are too kind, monsieur; I fear that those who think as you are not
many. After all, I am little more here than a gaoler--merely a gaoler,
M. Tryon."

"Yet, the Commandant of a military station and the Governor of a
Colony."

"The station is a penitentiary; the colony for liberes, ticket-of-leave
men, and outcast Paris; with a sprinkling of gentlemen and officers
dying of boredom. No, my friend, we French are not colonists. We
emigrate, we do not colonise. This is no colony. We do no good here."

"You forget the