Madagascar Gold

by H. Bedford-Jones

The gifted author
of “Cactus and Rat
tlers,” “The Junk
of Laughing Girls,”
“Shadows of Saf
fron” and many
other memorable
stories here con
tributes a novelette
of great dramatic
power that will
hold your interest
from the first para
graph to the last.

Here's a complete
novelette about one
of the least-known
regions of the world
—the great French-
controlled island of
Madagascar. This
picturesque back
ground is only one
of the many attrac
tions offered by
one of the most re
markable stories we
have ever printed.

Madagascar Gold

By

H. Bedford-Jones

A LARGE schooner, coming from the Seychelles, was drawing in upon the northeast tip of Madagascar. May was well advanced, and she leaned over with a bone in her teeth to the steady thrust of the southeast monsoon.

Two men stood at her starboard rail, carefully examining through their prismatics the patches of whitish cliff that marked Cap du Diable. Both were white men. A dozen laughing, care-free Malagasys were idling along the deck, thoroughly enjoying the rushing sweep of the schooner with all the seaman's delight inherited from far Polynesian ancestors. A Chinaman paused at the lee rail, grinning at the brown men as he heaved some slops over board; he was Ah Sin, the cook, a sleek and rotund Cantonese, always grinning and yet possessed of incredible guile and malign cruelty. Beside the helmsman stood the mate Yusuf, a coast Arab. He was tall, half-naked, pockmarked, scarred, absolutely fearless. A magnificent seaman, he knew every inch of these northern Madagascar coasts, which are among the trickiest, least-known and most, dangerous coasts in the world. Yusuf had been with Trenchard these three, years, and would be with him for life. The two men were as one, and in their hands the schooner was no mechanical object working in the wind, but a live and sentient creature.

Trenchard, who owned this schooner, was a slim, quiet, rather small man. His features were neatly carven, very brown, always calmly poised; at times a slight and inscrutable smile glimmered in his level gray eyes. He lowered his glasses and turned to his companion, a large and al most bulky man whose face expressed heavy determination. The latter grunted.

“Sure you can find it, Trenchard?”

“No,” said Trenchard quietly. “I've never been there. According to the charts, no such place exists. But Yusuf says that it does exist—that's all.”

“You and your Yusuf!” Svenstrom laughed half-angrily, and turned to glance at the mate. “Trusting my life to him, eh?”

“No—my own.” Trenchard made a gesture as though this ended the matter. So it did.

“Can't see any sign of shelter down there,” grunted Svenstrom, eyes to his glasses.

“If you could, others would,” retorted Trenchard. “We'll catch a signal from Grenille before long, provided he's there. Watch for it. I'd better go aloft to keep out an eye for coral patches.”

HE turned to Yusuf. A few words in Swahili passed between them; then Trenchard swung into the rigging. He was a remarkable hand at sighting patches; and now with the morning sun behind them, Yusuf on deck and Trenchard aloft, the schooner was as safe in these uncharted waters as though in Tamatave harbor—though few others would have believed it.

All this section of the coast was uninhabited, bare, desolate. The schooner was bearing down past Andrava Bay, with Cap du Diable and its chain of round hum mocks off to the north, and Berry Head opposite, its bleak, reddish ground running back into the bush. On ahead, the coast alternated in long stretches of glistening white sand beach and whitish cliff, and appeared to go straight to the southward without a break or a shelter, the shores cloaked in scanty brush and running back in bare red uplands to the astonishing land mark of all this coast—Thumb Mountain, rising in the shape of an eagle's beak, with a deep cut on the right side, and from this approach extremely conspicuous.

Trenchard, up aloft, watched the water with extraordinary care. True, they were inside the usual lane of coast steamers, but any accident here would mean certain death—not from the sea, but from men. Once caught here, once recognized, the schooner could expect no mercy. Trenchard was glad that the sun was high and behind him, and that the sea was not calm, for thus every condition was at its best for his task.

Yusuf knew the waters, true; but he was not sure of the coral. Now the schooner began to zigzag slightly, the brown men standing at the lines, Yusuf watching the shore and the slim figure aloft. From time to time Trenchard pointed, then moved his left hand or his right. The left signified a light brownish patch, which be tokened a scant three-foot depth; the right indicated greenish depths of a fathom or more. Svenstrom, watching it all, marveled and frowned at this conduct, for he had expected shoutings and quick warnings. These two men who worked together scarcely uttered a word, and comprehended each other perfectly. Svenstrom was no fool, was in fact extraordinarily alert; yet he was as far from understanding Trenchard, whom he regarded rather as a high-class outlaw and reckless scoundrel, as he was from understanding Yusuf, whom he regarded as an Arab ruffian. The fact that he regarded himself as a bold and dashing rascal, a gay dog who laughed at laws, did not aid his comprehension. However, in the usual course of events he would work in very well with the others. He knew Grenille quite well, and the fact that Grenille accepted Trenchard as a full equal was a high recommendation, for as a rule Grenille would have nothing to do with Anglo-Saxons.

Just what lay behind Trenchard, no one was quite sure, and the skipper himself was not the man to blow about it. Trenchard had a most astonishing reputation among the men who did things, who all swore by him; he had another sort of reputation among the men who ordered other men to do things, for these swore at him and offered rewards for him. Among the French colonial officials, in particular, Trenchard was held in abomination. It was not so much the fact that he broke laws, as it was his manner in breaking them. Blustering, hard-fisted roisterers, who acted by the code of desire, they could handle; yet they were helpless to cope with this quiet man who treated their laws with contemptuous disdain, whose idea of abstract justice they could not comprehend, and who seemed to regard a brown-skinned man as the equal of a white.

SVENSTROM had heard much of Trenchard, off and on, but had not seen the man until that morning the skipper came to the hotel in Port Victoria, capital of the Seychelles, and handed Svenstrom a letter from Grenille. The latter and Svenstrom had worked together previously, and Svenstrom had been expecting just such a letter; but his disappointment at sight of Trenchard was acute. This quiet little man, Trenchard the pirate, Trenchard the smuggler, Trenchard the knight errant of the Indian Ocean! Incredible! Trenchard had read his thoughts, and smiled a trifle.

“Better come into it,” he had said, indicating the letter which Svenstrom held. “I met Grenille in Mauritius, and he caught a cattle-boat over to Madagascar, while I came up here to fetch you. Grenille arranges things there; I attend to the transport; then we cut across the Mozambique Channel and you arrange the disposal of the stuff in Portuguese East. They don't like me there, but that's the only place we can get rid of loose gold.”

Svenstrom had had to laugh, at that, for he spent much of his time in the Portuguese colony and knew all about it. True, they did not like Trenchard there—to the extent of a large reward, dead or alive. Trenchard had helped some Arab skipper get his dhow out of the greedy clutches, of a grafting official, and one thing led to another; men were killed; a Portuguese coaster was blown ashore with cut cables; shifted buoys put a gunboat on a coral bank; and at a rather high price the Arab got his dhow back and fled to Zanzibar.

“Grenille doesn't go into details,” Svenstrom had said, glancing at the letter.

“His word's good with me,” Trenchard had replied. “Fifty thousand pounds in free gold. How about you? We split three ways if you come in.”

“Oh, I know Grenille; sure.”

“Then get aboard in an hour. I have to get out before they discover who I am.”

That had been all. Svenstrom had watched the trim, slender figure stride away, remembered the keen intelligence of the flashing gray eyes, and had made his decision instantly. Queer that he had, too, for he was a plodding and suspicious sort, slow to trust, apt at sounding out his man with sly words and furtive jinglings of coin. Now, as he stood under the whistling cordage, heard the pull and creak of the schooner, watched the slender figure of Trenchard waving first left hand and then right, he glanced ahead at the barren coast with narrowed and uneasy eyes. He could not understand why he was on this absurd errand, why such a man as Trenchard was fool enough to stick to a sailing schooner in these days of power, why the scent of raw gold and the word of Grenille had tempted him. Sometimes fear and hesitation struck into his spirit, and this was one of the times, as the loom of the red hills drew nearer, and the schooner rushed here and there among the coral patches with never a reef in her booming mainsail.

AS for Trenchard, poised aloft and staking against death his swift judgment of green and brown and clear turquoise water, his thoughts touched only fleetingly on the white man below. He had no particular fondness for Svenstrom, had plumbed the man's depths on the way south, and held aloof. Still, Svenstrom was badly needed in the enterprise, was no coward, and was instinct with a bulldog reliability in times of actual stress; oddly enough, it was at other times that the man might go weak. This was of little moment, however, or so it appeared. The agreement was that Grenille was to be in absolute command ashore here, Trenchard while afloat, and Svenstrom when they reached Portuguese East.

Now the rocky, hilly coast began to open out ahead, inside Pointe aux lies, where the little Ifontsi River trickled into the sea; a few scattered islets appeared, although at a little distance or from sea ward they were totally invisible against the hills. The schooner rushed on, now to right, now to left, as though death did not lie just under her forefoot; Yusuf stood braced to the rise and fall, swinging easily from knees and hips, his gaze flitting be tween the shore marks and the figure up aloft conning the way. Presently he opened his thin lips, and a few words floated upward; Trenchard inspected the waters ahead, found them a dear deep green, nodded confirmation and came down to the deck.

“Two points off the port bow as she lies now,” he said to Svenstrom. “That's the signal from Grenille. All clear.”

SVENSTROM peered through his glasses. From one of the jutting masses of rock at the shore was winding up a thin trail of gray smoke, swiftly dissipated on the wind. A few moments afterward it had died out, vanished. The schooner was running in close along the shore.

“Inside the coral,” observed Trenchard. “Good depth here, too—twelve fathom at least. Yusuf must be going inside those islands—”

Suddenly the voice of Yusuf drove at the two men.

“By Allah and the Excellent Names of Allah!” he cried, and changed to French. “Look there, above the headland!”

Svenstrom looked, not understanding. Trenchard looked, and his lips tightened. Against the reddish hills, inland above the jutting promontory of the point, lifted on the wind a second finger of smoke; not thin and gray and cautious, like the signal from Grenille, but a dark and massive column that wavered upward and then scattered. It rose, while they stared; then gradually it thinned and died away into a trickle, and this trickle was lost to sight behind an intervening hill.

“What's it mean?” asked Svenstrom.

Trenchard looked at the Arab, who threw up his head in negation.

“Hard to say. Not Grenille.”

“No?” Svenstrom glanced swiftly at the skipper. “Who, then? Natives?”

TRENCHARD merely shook his head in silence. That dark smoke was inexplicable to him; yet he could not disregard it, and it troubled him. Not Grenille, certainly. Almost as certainly not an enemy, for here no enemy would advertise his presence, but would strike unseen. There were no French hereabouts, and few natives, for these bare volcanic hills offered no sustenance to the humped cattle of the island. There was no village; there was not even a hill road. That smoke might have been made by some natives, in disregard of the schooner skirting the coast; this was the only plausible explanation, for the moment. None the less, Trenchard remained staring at the red hills, which were now empty of the faintest trickle of smoke, with a slight frown on his face. He could not disregard such things. He lived by regarding them. Anything out of the normal was a warning, a symbol. And now he felt a vague disturbance, a premonition, an inward foreboding that this smoke was going to count largely if he could but translate it aright.

“Grenille should know,” he said after a little.

The islands opened out now—tiny bits of rocky brush, offering slight shelter against a blow. Yusuf's voice cracked out, and the brown men leaped to work. The schooner, decreasing speed as the canvas was reefed or furled, glided onward, felt her way cautiously past the first islet, then spun suddenly on her heel with the last bit of steerageway. There came a splash, a clattering run of cable, a tug at the line, and she was at rest in a tiny little invisible haven, a cleft in the island rock. The shore was massive and bold, a quarter-mile distant, rimmed with surf.

“Put out the whaleboat,” said Trenchard quietly. He glanced once more up at the higher red hills, for he could not get that smoke out of his mind; but the hills were empty and bare, the brassy blue of the sky was unsmirched. Trenchard shrugged and turned away.

Chapter II

THE three partners talked over the luncheon which Grenille furnished. They sat in the cool shade of a deft in the high cliffs, a little niche where even the sky was shut out; the entrance gave them sight of a narrow strip of shore, high rolling surf, and the schooner as she lay against the rocky island. Yusuf had the Malagasys at work getting down her topmasts and putting out a stern line; she might ride here a year unseen, unguessed. Grenille had left his camp and men half a mile away in the cañon of the Ifontsi River.

“Me, I do not understand that black smoke, either,” he said, “but one of my boys has gone to investigate. He will report here to us, so be at ease. Those are good men, those of mine!”

“They'd better be,” said Svenstrom, and then shifted uneasily under Trenchard's eyes.

Grenille was a wiry little man, with quantities of black hair masking a keen, hard set of features. He had a pug nose with flaring nostrils, and beneath heavy lids, his eyes were brown and luminous and ablaze with energy, fie spoke no English whatever, but the other two men under stood French perfectly.

Each of the three was of a distinct type. Here in this rock-cranny, where the whole world was shut out, one felt quite palpably the sharp clash of character among them. Grenille evinced a checked eagerness and vivacity, a nervous vehemence held well in control, an impatience which lay under a tight rein. Svenstrom's physique and powerful features and bull neck showed a far greater physical ability but much less self-mastery; there was a brutal strain in him which might break out if given an opening. Trenchard, whose brown hair showed dark and curly with perspiration beneath his pushed-back cap, betrayed an absolute subordination of matter to mind; the very strength of his quiet reserve was impressive. When he lighted his pipe and leaned back against the rock, it was as though he gave a signal for which the others had waited.

“Details,” said Svenstrom. “I'd like to know the game, Grenille.”

The Frenchman laughed and pawed his black mustache.

“My friends, you have complimented me! Well, you comprehend; I have friends among the natives, the unchristianized Hovas of the west coast. They know that I am to be trusted, that the officials are not exactly my pals. So through them I learned of a treasure that was laid away at the time of the French conquest. It is a great quantity of free gold, amounting to fifty or more thousand English pounds. The natives cannot use it. If they tried, the French would ask questions, would force them to disclose the hoard. They can get no gain from it, thus. But if I, whom they trust, can cash it in, they will give me three-fourths of it. They will be glad to have one-fourth, and they know I am to be trusted.”

Svenstrom drew down his heavy brows.

“One has heard such stories before,” he said, but genially, to avoid offense. “If I had known it was a question of this native gold—”

“If Grenille says it is there,” said Trenchard, “then it is there.”

GRENILLE showed his white teeth in a flashing smile.

“Well, it is there; I have seen it and handled it. It is two days' journey inland from here, just beyond the road that goes to Antsondririna, and was buried in big earthen jars. The chiefs will have it removed and sewed up in hide packs, ready for us. They will provide porters. You chaps come along and take it. I am to remain as surety for the gold, as hostage.”

Trenchard laughed quietly and glanced at Svenstrom, who was astonished.

“I trust that you are satisfied now with our Grenille?”

“I do not like leaving you in their hands,” said Svenstrom. The Frenchman shrugged.

“It is safe. I know you men. If the schooner is caught, if accidents happen, I shall not be harmed. I am to remain as a surety for your faith in handling the gold; that is all. The native mind has queer twists, my friends.”

“All right,” said Trenchard, stirring a little. “When do we start?”

“When you are ready,” said Grenille.

Trenchard stood up, yawned, knocked out his pipe.

“I'm ready now. We'll want Ah Sin to cook for us. Need any men?”

“No,” said Grenille. “I have six natives in camp. But you, Svenstrom! I took for granted you could handle the stuff at Lourenco Marques. Eh?”

“Yes.” Svenstrom nodded thoughtfully. “It will cost a bit, perhaps a thousand pounds, but can be arranged.”

“You needn't go after it unless you wish.” Trenchard looked down at him. “If you'd rather stay here with the schooner—”

“Devil, no!” Svenstrom scrambled to his feet. “I like the land, not the ocean, under my heels.”

At this moment the three men were in perfect accord. Among them existed an absolute faith, an interdependence. Grenille's life was staked upon their honesty, for which he had answered to the natives. Svenstrom's life was staked upon Trenchard's ability to reach the African coast in safety. Trenchard's life was staked upon Grenille's assurance of safety here, and upon Svenstrom's ability to handle the Portuguese officials at the other end. One weak link in this chain would ruin all three.

“Get your devil of a yellow man, then,” said Grenille, rising. “I'm to leave one man here to keep an eye on the schooner and let us know if anything goes wrong.”

“Nothing will go wrong here,” said Trenchard. “I'm leaving Yusuf in charge.”

HE left them, passing along the cleft to the open shore beyond, striding across the white sand until he reached the water's edge. There he began to make signals toward the schooner. Grenille put the luncheon things together. Svenstrom stared after the skipper.

“He trusts that Arab,” he muttered.

Grenille looked up and laughed. “Why not? When one knows, one trusts. He is in the greatest danger. You are a trader, of good standing, and at most, would be expelled from the island. My sister is married to a high official in Paris; I run little risk. But Trenchard—ah! The bullet for him, if they catch him.... He's coming back.”

Trenchard was striding back into the cleft. Now he raised hand and voice to the two men.

“Your man's coming, Grenille!”

They hastened out to the opening. Running along the shore under the cliffs toward them was a native, spear in hand—a tall, bronze-colored man with shells in ears and nostrils. He ran up to the three, saluted them, and spat forth Malagasy at Grenille. The latter listened with incredulity lighting his brown eyes.

“He says,” translated the Frenchman, turning, “that the black smoke was a signal made to your ship. Me, I do not understand this! He says that he saw a strange white man all alone on the hillside, a small man with long golden hair, who carried a rifle and was coming toward the sea, following the river. Therefore he will find my camp.”

The three glanced at one another, puzzled.

“Go and see,” said Trenchard. “Ah Sin is coming ashore.”

Grenille ordered the native to take up the basket. In through the line of rollers was shooting the whaleboat. It drove to the beach, and Ah Sin leaped out, holding a bundle against his black silk jacket. The whaleboat was pushed out, turned, hung poised an instant, then smashed through the first line of surf and headed for the second.

“You've met Ah Sin before this, Grenille,” said Trenchard. The Frenchman laughed at the yellow man, who gave him a grin in return. Then the five started off along the shore toward Grenille's camp.

They walked rapidly, frowning, silent, wondering what sort of person they would see. One man did not spell danger of him self, but his presence spelled disaster. One incautious word breathed abroad would bring trouble. If the authorities learned that Grenille, Trenchard and Svenstrom had been here in Madagascar together, there would be investigation—and if it came before the gold was safely handled, it would bring ruin. Svenstrom wanted no suspicion directed at him, for in the eyes of the world he was a trader and could not stand any blight; nor did Grenille care to be stopped and investigated before he had cleared out with his share. Trenchard did not care particularly what happened, yet could not rid himself of that premonition he had felt at first sight of the black pillar of smoke. All three men were wondering how best to take care of this stranger, how to shut his mouth.

Presently they left the beach and turned up beside the brown river. Grenille's camp was hidden amid a pile of twisted rocks, and they came upon it suddenly, saw the white man standing there with Grenille's five half-hostile Hovas around him. From Trenchard escaped a low whistle, and he paused abruptly. Svenstrom uttered a low and astonished oath. Grenille laughed and strode forward, sweeping off his hat as he advanced.

“Good day, madame!” he exclaimed. The white man was a woman.

TRENCHARD was the only one who realized in a flash just what it must mean to them, who saw his premonition fulfilled, who looked at this woman not as a thing of flesh and blood, but as a symbol of what must inevitably come about. So he stopped short, and his gray eyes became cold.

The woman looked past the others at him and read the antagonism, the hatred, in his gaze. She looked past the smiling, bowing Grenille and the staring Svenstrom, whose eyes were preying upon her, to the slender man whose white seaman's cap was shoved back on his head and who met her look with a cold bitterness. Then the emotion went out of his eyes, and he took off his cap. She forced this much from him, in that first startled meeting of glances.

The woman wore khaki, a torn riding suit, and from beneath her helmet loose masses of golden hair hung about her neck. She was petite, slim and thinly developed as a girl; yet she was no girl; Trenchard put her down as five-and-twenty. A golden glow of joyous sun-bronzed health filled her face, and dark brows clouded eyes of a rich and glowing amber—eyes that could open very wide, or narrow thinly beneath heavy and masterful lids. When she smiled at Grenille, white and perfect teeth flashed out, and all her face radiated eager laughter.

“Monsieur, your natives were about to spear me like a fish—and my rifle empty!” she exclaimed. “I am glad you came. I am hungry, thirsty, lost, and my clothes are all torn by Mysore thorns, and there are some leeches under my shirt—”

“One suffers in these forests, madame,” said Grenille. “One moment, and my tent shall be cleared. When you have bathed and refreshed yourself, a meal will be ready.”

HE snapped orders at his men. The small tent was cleared; calabashes of water were made ready; it was only a moment or two before he was holding open the flap. She, meantime, drove another swift look at Trenchard, but he was filling his pipe and ignored her. All three men knew her discomfort, for not only were her clothes badly torn, but her mention of leeches showed that she had not emerged from the jungle unscathed. Any one of the three, at such a moment, would have ripped off clothes and rid himself frantically of the pests. When she had gone into the tent and Grenille closed the flap, Svenstrom turned to the skipper.

“A real woman, eh, Cap'n?” he said in a low voice, and his eyes were glowing.

Trenchard regarded him coolly.

“Not a phantom, certainly; so I imagine she's real.”

“Eh?” Svenstrom frowned. “You're not glad to see her, then?”

“Not a bit,” returned Trenchard calmly. “Are you?”

The other was put out of countenance by that question, and did not respond. Grenille came up to them, his brown eyes inquiring and mocking.

“The devil is in paradise,” he said, but he sighed a little. Trenchard flung him an acidly bitter look.

“You are in command here. If you will take my advice, put a bullet in that woman and go.”

Grenille started, stared at him in acute astonishment.

“This—from you! You are not in earnest?”

“When I am on French soil, I am usually in earnest.”

“But—you don't know her? You have some reason for saying that?”

Trenchard shrugged. “She is a woman,” he said. “Reason enough.”

“Very well,” and Grenille eyed him in somber reflection. “Put a bullet in her, then.”

Trenchard grunted, turned his back and lighted his pipe. The other two men glanced at each other, and Grenille made a grimace. Svenstrom smiled slightly.

“I am entirely willing to remain here,” he observed with a light manner. “You two chaps go ahead. I will entertain the lady, or take her back to her party.”

Grenille put his head on one side, like a bird, and his eyes twinkled.

“Quite out of the question, I assure you, mon vieux!” he said smoothly. “This is a matter for caution. Anyone searching for this lady might, naturally, chance upon us; or, if she were returned to her party, she would certainly mention having encountered us. It is, of course, imperative that we help her.”

“Of course,” said Svenstrom with decision. Grenille flung him an indescribable look.

“But,” he pursued gently, “we must first help ourselves. Not? To make sure of her, she must accompany us. I shall charge myself with her safety. First, however, we must hear her story—then decide.”

Trenchard gazed up at the far mountains, and puffed at his pipe. He had not missed that gentle smoothness in the tone of Grenille, and he understood perfectly what was in the mind of Svenstrom. A bitter smile touched his thin lips slightly.

“It has begun,” he thought.

Presently the woman came out of the tent, laughter in her eyes.

Chapter III

WHILE she gratefully ate and drank of what Grenille could provide, Sylvie de Peyrier sketched her misadventures for the three men who listened. If she observed that Ah Sin and the six brown men were getting ready to march, she offered no comment; her manner was one of laughing delight at having met with friends; yet beneath the surface was a poise, a sang froid, a cool capability which was unusual in a woman rescued from an uncertain fate.

Her father was a geologist employed by the government and at work near Lokia, to the west of Thumb Mountain. Two days previously she had arrived by a coasting steamer at Vohemar, farther down the coast, and as her father had not turned up to meet her, she started off by road to meet him, having been provided with a horse and a trusty native guide. The guide, however, had drunk water from a stream, had swallowed a tsingala—the tiny waterbug which is death to man or beast—and remained beside the road. The girl went on alone after watching him die, helpless to aid him, and had lost her track; the hill roads were mere trails. Her horse fell and broke a leg. Afoot, not knowing where she was, Sylvie struck out for the coast to the east as her surest method of reaching some human habitation. She had sighted the schooner that morning, and sent up a signal. That was all.

“It is an unexpected pleasure to meet a ship and three gentlemen,” she said, directing a smile at Trenchard, who did not respond. “You can take me to Vohemar, Captain Trenchard?”

“Sorry,” said Trenchard, removing his pipe. “I think we can take you on with us, and get you safely to Lokia and your father. Ask Grenille about it. He's in command.”

He met a swift flash of her eyes, a slight widening of the lids, which was expressive. The girl knew him for an enemy. Then she turned to Grenille.

“Well, monsieur? What do you say? Evidently you did not land from that schooner.”

“No,” said Grenille, who was far from losing his caution. “I was rather surprised to see her coming—”

Trenchard stirred, for this was a false move. He spoke out, roughly.

“The truth of it is, mademoiselle, we are slavers. We are going to get a party of slaves and take them away in the schooner, and we dare meet no one. But you are safe with us.”

This statement caused Grenille and Svenstrom to blink; it was audacious, for it was obviously a lie—another way of telling the girl to ask no questions. She knew well enough they were nothing of the sort. Anyone would know it. Grenille, however, was prompt to the cue.

“We must regretfully confess,” he said, and sighed. “Yes, you are safe with us, that is true. If you are able to march, you shall accompany us. I shall send ahead and have guides and a litter ready, and you can be sent on to Lokia.”

“That is very sweet of you,” she said, and gave Grenille a slow smile that brought the red to his cheeks.

A QUEER thing happened. Trenchard was just swearing to himself that she was not a good woman to look at any man like that; he had perceived that tinge of red in the cheeks of Grenille, the wiry rover, the hardened rascal whose moral sense drew blank when it was a question of women white or brown. He saw the girl turn to Svenstrom and meet his predatory gaze with that same full smile, her rich amber eyes dilating slightly on his. Then, as though feeling the scrutiny of Trenchard, she directed at him a grave and thoughtful glance, and lowered her eyes.

His thoughts were shattered by that look. It expressed to his mind a sharp fear, a fine clear innocence; he told himself abruptly that he was wrong, that she was alarmed and afraid, that she was perfectly all right and was appealing to him. A thousand conjectures flitted into his head. It was as though for an instant she had let fall a curtain, giving him a momentary level glimpse into some holy of holies. It left him confused and inchoate of thought, yet sure after all that she was what she seemed, unsullied and calmly brave.

“I am ready,” she said, and rose, smiling again.

Grenille got the men into action, striking the tent, making up packs, one of them taking the girl's empty rifle. Ah Sin, blandly rotund, smoked a tiny sleeve pipe, his oblique eyes missing nothing at all; as the men fell into line, he joined them, his high boots making an incongruous touch to his black silk costume. He watched the Hovas curiously, for these were no common natives, but picked men, each wearing a handsome lamba or sarong woven from the silk of the “ditch-crosser” spider—silk strong enough to entangle birds in the webs. They filed off, and Grenille made a signal to Svenstrom. The latter offered his arm to Sylvie de Peyrier, and she refused it, but walked beside him, talking to him, while he tried to peer down sidelong at her and purred with laughter and soft words which the others could not catch.

Grenille, walking with Trenchard, wore a cynical smile beneath his wide black mustache.

“I know De Peyrier,” he confided to Trenchard. “He is a great old rascal, liking nothing better than a few horns of native rum. He is always drunk when working. Probably he was too drunk to go meet her. By the time she is missed, we shall be safely away, eh? Look at that fool Svenstrom, with his bull neck and square head! They wont have a boulevard of it long.”

“Eh? Why not?” asked Trenchard, caught by the tone of these last words.

Grenille pointed to the men. “These are Hovas, you understand? From the interior! All about here is Sakalava country, and Hovas are not liked. These chaps will take good care that we meet no one, be sure! We shall strike the bush soon. And now what about putting that bullet into the woman, eh?”

“Oh, shut up,” snapped Trenchard. “Just the same, it was good advice.”

Grenille chuckled, pawed his tangle of black beard, and held his peace.

His words dwelt with Trenchard, however. The girl's father drunk, letting her come alone across almost unknown country! Nothing cowardly about her, at all events, he thought, and remembered how collected she had been, well poised. Such a girl was capable of high things. What did Grenille intend? Not to send her on as he had promised, certainly, for he had not dispatched any of the men ahead. Probably Grenille had encountered few such women as this in his roving life, and was not yet decided as to his course; one thing was certain, and this was the lack of any high nobility or pity in the man. Grenille could be hard as flint at times.

WHEN an hour had passed, the party was in the uplands, straggling through thorny bush which appeared to stretch endlessly toward the volcanic masses piled fifty miles distant. The brush and small trees were thorny, filled with the hooked Mysore barbs, and occasionally a cry of warning would come down from the natives ahead, and a wide sweep would be made to avoid clumps of the Agy vine, which showers its fearfully poisonous needles on any unwary passers-by. In general, how ever, there was no forest or jungle, this being restricted to the gorges and lower valleys.

The afternoon was half gone when, amid general consternation, the march was brought to an abrupt halt. Grenille had joined Svenstrom and the girl. Trenchard, bringing up the rear, watched the three figures—Grenille swaggering along, Sylvie maintaining the pace with effortless ease, Svenstrom's huge bulk floundering and already wearied by the rough going. A queer sense of disaster oppressed Trenchard; he could not explain it, knew better than to mention it to Grenille; yet he felt it distinctly. Once or twice Svenstrom turned to glance at him, and the man's eyes were singular. Trenchard had the feeling that they were talking about him. He felt, too, that he had somehow been detached from his partners, not only physically but mentally. Some men can sense such things by telepathy. Trenchard tried to tell himself that it was the heat, the land breeze, the irritating struggle with thorn and brush; yet it was none of these things. Then one of the Hovas cried out, and the cry was passed back, and the party halted.

Trenchard perceived the signal as soon as the others—two tall plumes of bluish smoke that ascended from some hillock miles ahead of them. Grenille plunged on to where the brown men stood staring, and talked excitedly with them, then came back to the others, his eyes anxious, nervous fingers worrying his beard.

“A signal to halt,” he said abruptly, careless of the girl's presence or what she might deduce from his words. “Some trouble has come up—how should I know what it is?”

Svenstrom cursed and rubbed his hand, which some nettle had stung virulently.

“That's always the way,” he said, a morose frown clouding his heavy features. “This myth always ends the same way. There's never an end to the rainbow.”

Grenille looked up at him with sudden fierce anger, but made no response. Trenchard filled and lighted his pipe and waited. Then he saw that the girl had turned; leaving the others, she came back to him, and her clear amber eyes were fastened upon him in coolly direct challenge. Svenstrom turned to look after her, and his gaze lighted on Trenchard. In that look was a burst of repressed enmity.

“I want to speak with you, please,” said the girl quietly. He assented in silence. Grenille and Svenstrom went on to where the Hovas stood grouped, so that the two were beyond earshot. Trenchard met the girl's eyes and waited.

“Why do you hate me?” she asked abruptly, a puzzled curiosity in her words and air.

“I don't,” said Trenchard.

“Bah! Don't deny it. Let us get somewhere. From the moment we met, you hated me; and then you wanted to kill me—put a bullet into me. Why? What have I done?”

SO Svenstrom had talked! Suddenly Trenchard realized that things had gone crashing down around him. He did not know what to say, and so stood silent, puffing at his pipe, his gray eyes resting coldly on the lovely features of the girl who faced him.

Those words of hers gave him a bad turn. They marked the end of things. They explained the singular looks of Svenstrom, and he wondered if Grenille shared the other man's feelings. A surge of bitterness uprose within him as he thought of what this woman had accomplished, as he looked back at the labor of weeks brought to nothing in an hour's time. He thought of his meeting with Grenille in Mauritius, of his long traverse to the Seychelles, his meeting there with Svenstrom, the letter, the departure and voyage south—of those long weeks, those plans so carefully laid and fostered. And now the hidden fault in Svenstrom had come to the surface and was rotting everything. Of Grenille he was not certain at all.

Those amber eyes probed him steadily. The girl spoke again, more softly.

“Well, what have I done, then? You should not hate me. It is to you that I look, Captain Trenchard. These other two—I am afraid of them. Grenille mocks me; Svenstrom looks at me as a hawk looks at a fowl. I know what to expect from them, but you are different.”

“I am not different,” said Trenchard.

“But you are. I know!” A sudden warmth shone in her face. “You say that Grenille is in command here; but I know better. You are the master. It is you who can protect me, if you will. Why do you hate me so? What have I done to you?”

Revulsion of feeling swept Trenchard. It was true—what had she done to him? Nothing, of intention. She was not to blame for the hearts of these other men. She was not to blame for having seen their party and joined them. It was not her fault at all; it was simply a dispensation of Providence.

“Before you came,” he said quietly, frankly, “we three were as one. You are a woman, and no ordinary one. I knew what must happen—ruin to all our plans, disaster, perhaps death. I do not hate you for it, no; but you cannot expect me to regard it with joy.”

His words were cold, dispassionate, clearly concise. He regarded the woman without emotion, without any slightest response to the warm appeal of her eyes. Then she spoke again, quietly, and every word was like a fresh blow to him.

“I understand,” she said. “I am sorry. Svenstrom told me a good deal. I know what you are after—and I heard of you three men down at Tamatave. There is a reward of five thousand francs for your capture or death; you are supposed to be a terrible person. Well, I do not think so. I would trust you, where I could not trust these others.”

Trenchard was really frightened now, almost for the first time in his life. That fool Svenstrom, that animal, must be mad with passion! He must have gulped out everything to this girl; he would go to any lengths; he would regard nothing. Trenchard could not quite fathom this insensate desire on Svenstrom's part, for the thought of the gold should have held the man steady; yet, did Svenstrom have any great faith in the story of Grenille?

“They are coming,” said Trenchard, lifting his eyes past the girl to the figures of Svenstrom and Grenille, approaching. “You need not be afraid, I give you my word upon it. No harm will come to you.—Well, Grenille? What is the trouble?”

THE swarthy little Frenchman made a gesture of helpless irritation.

“Mon Dieu, how do I know? That double smoke is a signal to go no farther, to stop, a signal of danger! I am going ahead with two of the Hovas; we shall undoubtedly meet a messenger from the chiefs. You others had better go back and wait. There may be troops in the hills, constabulary, anything! For all I know, the secret may have leaked out. We may have to get away in the schooner. I shall go and see.”

There lay courage. Trenchard's eyes glowed with swift warmth as he looked at Grenille and felt a rekindling of faith. The man might run into anything, there in the red uplands—native constabulary and trackers, troops, officials, treachery. In such an event, his only hope of escape lay in the schooner.

“Right,” said Trenchard. “We'll wait for you, Grenille.”

Grenille was satisfied with that. He bowed to the girl, his white teeth flashing through the tangle of beard; then he turned and departed. Two of the Hovas joined him, spears in hand, lambas wrapped about arms and bodies. The three plunged into the brush and were gone.

Trenchard beckoned the others, who took up their loads and began to retrace the trail, the rotund little Cantonese fol lowing closely. After Ah Sin went the girl. Svenstrom fell in beside Trenchard with a low rumble of words.

“I knew it, I knew it!” he said. “If I'd only known this was native gold before we started, I'd never have come. It always turns out this way—nothing to it at all. Grenille should have had more sense. Undoubtedly some of those accursed Hovas got drunk and talked, and the French sent up some constabulary. They'll nick the lot of us if we don't get out of here.”

Trenchard repressed his anger. “Grenille's gone to find out.”

“More fool he! I tell you, they'll send boats up the coast to catch us, if they do know. They wont spare any pains to nab you. They wont care much about Grenille or me, but they'll be after you hot and heavy. They'll send up some sort of boats that can get in among the coral banks.”

Trenchard looked at the man, whose heavy features were all adrift with panic.

“What do you want to do, then?” he asked. “Run and leave Grenille?”

Svenstrom cursed. “Damn Grenille! He got us into this fool escapade. Let him answer for it. Eh? You'll be the one to pay if we're caught. Grenille can slide out of it—he has influence and can use it. I can lie and use money. You're the one they'll want to catch.”

“You are eloquently persuasive,” said Trenchard, and smiled a little. It was on the tip of his tongue to pitch into the man and buck him up, shame him; yet that was a hopeless task. The rotten spot in Svenstrom had spread and corrupted everything. A sudden abrupt crisis might have done the trick, but there was no crisis—only a slow anxiety, a growing lack of faith, a gradual feeling that the whole expedition was fruitless. Svenstrom had disintegrated from within, not from without. What use to reproach him with treachery, with talking too much, with the lust that consumed him? None whatever. Within a few hours, Svenstrom had become an enemy, a traitor, a panic-struck creature ready to cut and run.

“Go on and talk to the woman,” said Trenchard, pointing to the slender khaki-clad figure ahead of them. Then he saw, to his astonishment, that Sylvie de Peyrier was already engaged in conversation—with Ah Sin. This was unprecedented, for the bland little Cantonese usually shunned all women as the plague. Svenstrom grunted and shoved on ahead, the girl turning to him with her eager smile.

“Aye, Svenstrom, you're better ahead of me than behind me,” muttered Trenchard. “You'll bear watching and no mistake. I wonder why Ah Sin was talking with her?”

He trudged on, shaking his head, bitterness heavy within him. It occurred to him that he had made two promises that afternoon—one to the girl, one to Grenille.

Chapter IV

BACK again in Grenille's camp by the river, where the Hova left here by Grenille joined the others, Trenchard ordered camp made, for the sun was resting on the western peaks and night was at hand. Bidding Ah Sin attend to the meal, Trenchard left the camp and strode on around the shore to the cliffs. When his figure was seen, a boat put out from the schooner, the tall figure of Yusuf standing in the stern. Now, with evening, there was little surf, and the boat swept in easily to the beach of white sand. Yusuf leaped ashore.

“Trouble, Rais Trenchard?” he asked.

“We were warned back,” said Trenchard. “We must wait and see what it means. We have picked up a French woman who was lost. Nothing is certain now, except disaster. Get the topmasts up, and be ready to get the anchor in.”

“We can slip the cable, Rais,” said the Arab. “The anchor was no good on the coral bottom, and lest it be lost I got out that old wooden anchor which we took from the dhow at Zanzibar. We bent it to that old hawser—it will be no loss.”

A flicker of a smile touched Trenchard's lips. How had this man guessed at trouble?

“You have seen nothing?”

“Yes, Rais. I sent a man up the cliff soon after you left this afternoon. He went around Pointe aux Iles, and made out two dhows far down the coast, inside the coral. They seemed to be lying inside the islands.”

TRENCHARD remembered the words, of Svenstrom. Dhows! They might be fishing there, of course, or might be doing anything; but no Arab dhows had any real business in such a position. Was it possible that Svenstrom's frightened brain had guessed at the truth? Was there a trap, then, cunningly laid to catch the outlaw Trenchard?

“Is the woman young, Rais?” asked the pockmarked Yusuf.

Trenchard nodded. “Yes. Everything has gone to smash.”

“Ah! It was written by the Prophet—whom may Allah bless!—that the keys of Paradise lie in the hand of a woman; but I think he may have written this in a moment of forgetfulness. By the ninety-nine excellent names of God, Rais, this is bad news.”

Trenchard waved his hand, watched Yusuf go back to the boat, stood frowning. After all, Grenille might have put his foot into a snare this time; constabulary might have gone around by land while others came up the coast in dhows. It was entirely possible. At the same time, it was equally possible to become frightened by shadows. Grenille might come in with word that everything was all right—perhaps De Peyrier was searching for the lost girl, and the Hova chiefs had become cautious.

TRENCHARD turned, started back toward camp, and as he neared the mouth of the little Ifontsi River he saw Ah Sin coming toward him in the gathering twilight. He walked on and met the bland little Cantonese, who addressed him in fluent French.

“Master, there is something wrong about that woman.”

“Wrong? What is it, then?” asked Trenchard, with a hopeless sinking feeling. He was not certain just what the word “wrong” might mean to Ah Sin.

“I do not know,” said Ah Sin calmly, “but I watched her this morning. It was true about the leeches, for there were spots of blood showing through her shirt, but those leeches might have been placed there for our benefit. At the same time she had not spent the night in the forest, nor had she come far, for her boots were fresh and had no mud on them.”

“Boots! Well, is that all? What do you know definitely?”

“Nothing, master.”

“Then be quiet,” exclaimed Trenchard, almost with a groan. He felt it impossible to face this sort of thing longer; he wanted facts, not theories. “Don't come to me until you have learned something definite, you understand? Keep your eye on Svenstrom, rather than the woman.”

Rebuffed, Ah Sin said no more.

Trenchard glanced back at the shadowed islet where the schooner lay, and was impelled to get aboard her and flee out to sea, away from all this, anywhere—if he only could! He felt trapped, snared, entangled in something with which he could not cope. It seemed as though a dark accumulation of ill-fortune was slowly gathering to burst over him. A quick, sharp danger he could meet and overcome; but here he sensed insidious peril, intangible in every detail, sending vague tentacles around him from without and from within. This gradual envelopment was a new thing. He went back to camp slowly, reflectively, his brain in a confused whirl.

THE evening meal was not pleasant. Svenstrom, once again so thoroughly absorbed in Sylvie de Peyrier that he had forgotten everything else, said no more about abandoning Grenille but sat beside the woman, chatting with her confidentially. From time to time she sent a questioning glance at Trenchard, who remained taciturn and aloof, quite ignoring them.

The night drew down; shadows closed in; the rocks around passed from gray to blue, from blue to dark obscurity. Across the heavens blazed out the stars, and from about their own fire came the voices of the Hova men. Trenchard, his meal finished, stuffed tobacco into his pipe and leaned forward, lighting it with a brand from the fire; the ruddy glare touched his face in high relief, accentuating its smooth lines, bringing a flash from his gray eyes. He rose, and strolled away along the river-shore.

For a little he paced up and down, looking from the sky to the dark, vague mass inland that bulked out the stars. From the river and the bar and the islands beyond came the murmurings of rustling water, and the far hollow reverberations as the slow night-surf rolled in and crashed on the sands. Here, save for a phosphorescent streak or two, the ocean was shut out; a slight cool land breeze swept down the river-valley; gradually Trenchard felt quieted and rested. The moon was not yet up, but the sky blazed, all the air was silvery, and he lifted his steady gaze to the constellations. He felt peace somehow from the starry roof, and wondered that he should have bothered himself with the petty vagaries of other tiny people; but when he turned, pacing back, and fronted the black rock-masses that shut out the western sky, these seemed to him pregnant with ominous silence, darkness, menace. What was breeding for him up in those hills? Was Grenille fallen into some trap, or—

“Ah! I was looking for you, Captain.”

SHE seemed a fragile little thing as she came toward him, dark slender shape of a boy, thin in the starglow, her face white beneath golden hair. Suddenly her loveliness touched him, there in the night, made him aware of its fragrance and fine delicacy; after all, she was a tender creature, fighting against a harsher world with a finer courage than his own, facing more brutal things than he himself had to face. Trenchard took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair, waiting. Characteristically, he said nothing.

“I must tell you something—there is something you must do at once, now!” She came close to him, caught at his hand, gripped her fingers into his wrist, peering at him as though trying to read his face there in the starlight. Oddly enough, he knew that the gesture, the touch, was no blandishment—he read urgency in her voice, in her manner, knew that her calm poise and control had left her.

“I can't explain; you must take my word for it,” she went on, with a catch of her breath. “Oh, I didn't understand! I didn't know what sort of man you were, until I saw you beside these others! That beast Svenstrom—he has told me more than he knew. Why did you ever trust such a man? You are like steel, like steel! They are nothing beside you. I thought you were the other kind—a wild brute, a pirate, a rascal unhung—but you're not.”

Trenchard was tremendously astonished. He could not know how terribly coherent was her whole thought just then; he considered that she must be incoherent, hysterical, thrown off her balance somehow. Her fingers gripped on his wrist, almost frantically.

“You must get out of here, at once! Get to your schooner and go away, without losing a minute!” Her voice was low and tense, vibrant with emotion. “Oh, I can't tell you—some day you'll know, and you'll not think so badly of me.”

“Why, no, I don't.” Trenchard found fumbling words at last. “Not a bit. It's not your fault at all—I can see that, of course. It's what you couldn't help in the least.”

He felt her shiver, and felt horribly afraid that she was going to faint.

“See here, you needn't be nervous!” he went on hastily. “Nothing to be worried about. I'll see you through all right. Whatever happens, you're safe. Grenille may be back any time now, and I'll see to it that he sends you off—”

A sudden laugh escaped her. “Bah! Grenille makes a mock of me; nothing he could do would help me. But it's not for myself that I'm afraid. You're in danger here. You must get aboard that schooner and go, before morning! Don't ask me why—just do as I tell you. It's for your sake, because you're a man, not the animal I thought you were. Do you understand? Take your Chinaman and go aboard your schooner, and go!”

In this last word was an inexpressible force, an energy, as though by the imperative command she would compel him to do as she said. Trenchard felt bewildered at her mention of danger. From whom, then? Not from Svenstrom, though she might think so. He thought of those dhows down the coast, of the sudden break-down of the expedition, of the vague fears which both Yusuf and Ah Sin entertained, of the mistrust and premonition of disaster which had filled his own mind. Danger from whom, from whence? There was no answer. She could give him nothing definite, was doubtless acting on intuition alone. Queer creatures, women!

“You've had a hard day,” he said, and patted her hand gently. “Yes, a terribly hard day—no wonder your nerves have gone to bits. You get into that tent, now, and rest. Nothing's going to happen; you're quite safe, and you need sleep more than anything. As for leaving, I'm not leaving here until Grenille comes along. I know there's danger, of course—feel it the same way you do, by the sixth sense; but that's quite all right. We'll wait for Grenille.”

HIS quiet voice, his calm words, seemed to anger her. She snatched away her hand, stepped back a pace, stood there staring at him.

“You wont go?”

“No.”

“But—will nothing make you go, save yourself while you can? Oh, if I could tell you—”

“Don't try, don't try,” he said, soothingly, as one speaks to a frightened child. “It's quite all right, I promise you. I told Grenille that I'd wait, and of course I shall. He depends on me, you know. Even if there were real and acute danger, it'd make no difference.”

She stood silent for a moment, then her voice reached out with a deeper note.

“I said truly that you were made of steel! But—if I could show you that it were for myself that I ask—if it were not for your sake, but for my own? Surely you would do that? Surely you would take a boat at least, and conduct me up the coast?”

Trenchard shook his head gravely. “No, not at all. There is no danger to you from any of us; I assure you absolutely of that fact. Any other danger which might threaten you, would menace us all, or vice versa. You are here under my eye, and I shall see to it that you stand in no peril. But Grenille is somewhere out there in the hills, depending on me—”

“You would save him rather than me?” she flashed angrily. “Rather than yourself?”

“Yes,” said Trenchard. “Yes. You don't understand it, because you're a woman—”

She leaned forward. “Do you know that Grenille would cheerfully kill you this minute and take me, if he thought he could succeed?”

Trenchard did not want to answer that question, yet her air compelled him to truth. He struggled against it, remembering Grenille's air and words that day, and then yielded.

“It might be so,” he admitted. “But what difference does that make to me? Why should I run away and leave him, and curse myself? What the devil are you driving at, young woman?”

“Oh!” Scorn and despair cried out in her voice. “Will nothing make you go?”

“Nothing,” he said, and replaced his pipe in his mouth.

She turned and was gone, melting into the shadows. He looked where she had vanished, and after a moment saw her figure pass against the glow of the fires, then she was gone. Shaking his head, he stuffed more tobacco into his pipe and retraced his steps into the darkness.

“Women are curious beings!” he reflected. “Now, why in the fiend's name was she so set on my getting away, clearing out? Perhaps Grenille infuriated her this afternoon with his cynical mockery, and she wanted me to cut and leave him—likely enough. That'd be like a woman. Yet there's something about her I don't savvy at all. Can't understand it. If I'd met her ten years ago, now! She'd be a good fairy to me—oh, the devil! I'm making a fool of myself. I wish I was fifty miles out to sea, and that's a fact. This cursed land breeze is playing hob with me.”

HE swore softly, vehemently, forced all thought of the woman from his mind. A moment later he took a match from his pocket and lighted his pipe. Before the glow died, he heard the crunch of boots behind him, and turned. Even before the man spoke, he knew whose was that large, burly figure coming at him.

“You, Trenchard?” said Svenstrom, geniality in his voice. “See here, I've found the right way out of this thing—the woman, I mean. It's all clear enough now. I'm sick of this cursed affair; Grenille won't show up with any good news, you can depend on it. So here's the right way out for all hands.”

Trenchard hated the man, whose low, sleek voice hinted at unlovely things, at some hidden knowledge, at some festering scheme of brutality. Trenchard, however, was not accustomed to letting his heart speak in his words.

“So?” he observed, puffing at his pipe. “Glad to hear it. What's the idea?”

“Well, it's simple enough.” Svenstrom came close to him, spoke confidentially, softly. “I'd not mind dropping in at Tamatave, down the coast, and you can spare me that whaleboat, well enough. I'll pay for it, of course. It's got a sail, and I'll run down to Vohemar and maybe farther, if I don't catch a steamer.”

“Good enough,” said Trenchard, wondering what lay behind it. “When?”

“Oh, in the morning—give Sylvie a chance to get some rest. She'll be keen enough for it—was trying to get me to—”

“Look here, I'm sick of you,” said Trenchard suddenly. “You're a damned lying rascal.”

“Eh?” Svenstrom drew back, then laughed. “Oh! Don't believe it, eh? Well, you'd better, I can tell you! I've known all the while she was a liar, because I happen to know old man De Peyrier pretty well. He hasn't a daughter at all, hasn't a family, doesn't want one. Her whole yarn was a made-up lie, of course. I told her I knew the old chap, and she admitted without a blush that she had lied. Who she is I don't know, but it's not hard to guess—”

Trenchard swallowed hard. He had an uneasy conviction that Svenstrom was speaking the simple truth here, but his anger overbore him.

“Shut up and go to bed,” he snapped, then spoke with a curious softness. “You're a beast, Svenstrom. What your game is, I don't know or care. I sha'n't run and leave Grenille, and you sha'n't either. That's flat.”

Svenstrom breathed harshly in the silence.

“So?” he said, an ugly note in his voice. “You think you can get us all nabbed be cause of that damned Grenille? Not much. Maybe, now I've told you the truth about her, you'd like to take her somewhere else than down the coast, eh? I can see through you—and her too, the vixen! She can't play with me like that—”

His words had cloaked his actions. Suddenly he launched himself, his fist smashing through the darkness, knocking Trenchard asprawl. On hands and knees, Trenchard pulled himself up to find the other man leaping at him, cursing. In the starlight curved the blade of a knife, flung forward for the thrust.

Trenchard was not there when it plunged for him. This was action, hard concrete fact, murder darting at him; Svenstrom cursed and drove forward, cursed again, his hoarsely panting breath aflame with oaths and vileness. Trenchard fought him back desperately, bare fists against the whirling knife, and Svenstrom knew how to handle the blade. The issue could not be evaded. There was no compromise. When Trenchard slipped and fell on a loose bit of rock, Svenstrom reached for him furiously, hurling himself forward for the finishing blow.

So Trenchard, who had been feeling with his shifting feet for that rock, crashed it in just once, and Svenstrom plunged forward and rolled a little away with the slope. Trenchard stood over him, dropped his too-sharp weapon, and cursed.

“I might as well have used the pistol on him, after all,” he said to himself. “Struck too hard—oh, the devil! Everything's against me this trip.”

His trim, square shoulders sagged a little as he turned toward the camp and left the dead man under the stars.

Chapter V

TRENCHARD was profoundly disturbed, not by the death of Svenstrom, which had been quite unavoidable, but by the secret which Svenstrom had vilely cherished in his own breast all that day. He did not doubt its truth.

If this woman was not whom she claimed to be, then who was she? John Trenchard was no fool; remembering Ah Sin's words, remembering what the woman herself had said to him under the stars, looking back on everything, he was forced again to sudden doubt. Was it possible that he had come into a deliberate trap? He considered this thought, and could reach no decision, for this woman-factor was something totally new in his experience. He could not believe that this woman from the jungle was an agent sent to entrap him, for the French did not go about things that way; nor could he see how she had sprung any trap.

Feeling blindly confused, discovering nothing definite to work upon, he lay down to sleep. Weary as he was, he found sleep hard. From time to time, he wakened. He was not accustomed to lie on the cold earth, and the lack of motion disquieted him.

Finally Trenchard resolutely shut out all thought of the woman and made himself sleep again, this time more soundly. Then he suddenly came wide awake to a new sound, lay staring, wondering at it, until it came once more—the distant lift of a voice from a man's throat. The Hovas were instantly astir, sending up an excited chatter. Trenchard rose, pulled on his boots, saw the dark figures of the natives flinging fuel on the fire. He questioned them.

“Our men,” they said. “They will be here quickly, white man!”

Grenille, then—at last! Trenchard flung up his face toward the dark hills, and thrilled to the urge of action. When Grenille came, anything might happen; it might be war or peace, swift hard travel or flight—there would be no pause. The woman must be wakened. He put a hand beneath his shirt, hitched around the pistol, which had hurt his ribs in sleep, and went to the little tent.

“Mademoiselle! Waken and dress—Grenille is coming, mademoiselle!”

There was no response to his call. The fire-flames where flickering up, beginning to light the camp amid the rocks of the steep gorge, illuminating everything more clearly. There was no response—yet Trenchard was certain that he caught a stifled sound, a gasp of breath, a low moan.

“Mademoiselle!” His voice became incisive, penetrating. “Are you there?”

A SLIGHT rustle came from the tent, then silence. Trenchard felt for a match, flung open the flap, ripping it recklessly, and scratched the match. Something warned him—and then, as he held aloft the splinter of flame, he saw everything. His hand dropped the match and leaped to his pistol. The falling spark showed a frightful contortion of his face.

“Master, wait!” A shrill cry, a scream, wailed out at him. The figure of Ah Sin leaped forth in wild terror, uttering rapid words. “You told me—learn something definite and then come to you—something definite—”

Trenchard fired. He was for the moment beyond coherent thought—the sight of what was in that tent was etched into his very brain. He forgot everything else. He forgot that this yellow man had served him well, had saved his life, was one of two persons in the world whom he could trust absolutely and beyond cavil.

The short, brutal crack of the automatic raised wild echoes. Ah Sin screamed and fell sideways, fell among the rocks, whimpered a little and then was dead. Trenchard thrust away his pistol, and his voice leaped at the Hovas, who were already darting forward with torches from the fire. These gathered about the tent entrance, staring, chattering, awe-struck, while Trenchard went inside.

Sylvie de Peyrier sat bowed over, her left wrist lashed to her ankles. She had removed only her boots and her khaki jacket. Her right arm was lashed about the elbow and pegged to the ground before her. Under this hand was pencil and notebook, as though she had been writing or had been about to write; yet she had written nothing. The sleeves of her white silk shirt had been slit to the shoulders and now hung down so that her lovely arms were bare—but they were no longer lovely. Her head was forced back by a cruel gag that was set under her throat and across her jaws. Above this gag, her eyes were wide upon Trenchard, lambent pools of amber and black jade, the pupils vastly enlarged in the torchlight. Down both her arms, from shoulders to fingers, ran a fine tracery of vivid scarlet lines, the skin swollen and purple.

The Hovas chattered at the sight, pointed to the razor-edged Chinese knife, to the little carved vial of rock-crystal, which lay as the startled Ah Sin had dropped them. The yellow man had gone after definite facts in his own direct and cruel fashion, slitting the tender white skin and into each scratch rubbing some malignant native poison. The tiny electric flashlight by the notebook showed that he had tried to make the woman write. Now, as Trenchard carefully slit the gag and the lashings, the woman fainted. He picked up the little vial and passed it to the Hovas, who sniffed and dropped it. Two of them dashed away into the darkness, their torches glimmering redly, and in no time they ran back bearing some leaves; these Hovas are supreme physicians, knowing every secret of the forest herbs. Another man had prepared a gourd of water, in which the leaves were hurriedly crushed; then, removed, they were bound about the arms of the woman.

SATISFIED that these men knew their business, Trenchard followed them from the tent and stood there, drawing quick, deep breaths. He was still in a fury at thought of Ah Sin torturing this slender girl; yet this had been done for his sake, and a groan burst from him at the recollection of his own act. A frightful sense of intolerable misery oppressed him, a sense of being driven by a fatality which he could not escape; his remorse was fearfully acute, as he remembered a thousand instances of Ah Sin's devotion and faithfulness. He would have given his right hand to retract that deed, but it could not be undone. He sat down and put his head in his hands, shivering at thought of the passionate fury which had seized him; he was insensible to everything around him in the blind weight of bitterness. Another groan escaped his lips, a burning ache was seething in his very soul; a fearful horror of himself wrenched at his spirit. He gripped his head in both hands, cursing fate, cursing himself, cursing this woman.

Suddenly he became aware of noises all around—voices, feet, the scent of oiled bodies, sharp commands. He lifted a haggard and drawn face to the glare of a score of torches, and stared vacantly at Grenille, who stood before him in astonished horror at his aspect.

“What is it, what is it?” cried Grenille frantically. “Name of God, are you sick, are you deaf? What is it?”

Trenchard shivered. Then his gaze cleared, he composed himself, rose.

“It is fate,” he said in a dull voice. “Where did you come from? What news?”

Grenille mastered his feverish excitement, his burning questions. He flung out a hand toward the torches and crowding natives, spoke with a crisp energy.

“Good and bad. There are soldiers in the hills, detachments of white and black troops. It is possible that the scheme has been revealed to the French. The chiefs have fled back to their own territory. They sent down as much of the gold as had been made ready—probably a third of the whole. They sent word to take it and get away quickly, and to remit their share of the money later on when I was able. We must get it aboard the schooner at once, before dawn; these men are wild to get away, to cross the hills and reach their own country again. Where is Svenstrom?”

“Svenstrom?” repeated Trenchard. “Svenstrom?” A harsh laugh broke from him. “Who the devil cares about Svenstrom? There is Ah Sin, among those rocks. He must be taken aboard for burial.”

“Who killed him?” demanded Grenille. “Who did it, eh?”

“I did it,” said Trenchard.

GRENILLE peered at him, met his eyes, then turned pale and drew back a step. But Trenchard was suddenly alive to the situation; he wakened to action, dis regarded everything else, glanced at the crowding Hovas with their small but heavy burdens of hide sacks.

“Send two men with torches to accompany me,” he said. Once more his voice was curt and concise, poised, quietly dominant. “Bring Ah Sin, and have the woman carried. I'll go ahead and be ready. We have two boats. The schooner can slip out instantly—for lack of any breeze we'll have to tow her beyond the island bight. Wind will come at sunrise.”

“Where's Svenstrom, then?” demanded Grenille.

“Where he can't betray anyone,” said Trenchard, and moved away.

He started down the river-bank for the shore, two of the Hovas accompanying him with smoky torches of candle-nuts blazing the trail. He was himself once more, his despair and remorse crushed down by the necessity for action. Troops and constabulary, eh? Then Svenstrom's panic-struck mind had struck at the truth after all—curious! And those dhows down the coast; where were they now? Creeping up, undoubtedly, bringing more soldiers, perhaps a pom-pom or a machine gun.

“Trapped me, have they?” exclaimed Trenchard, nerves and brain suddenly whipping alert and keen. “Trapped me at last, eh? Some drunken native gave away the game, or a spy found it out. But I'll show 'em! Half an hour to dawn—”

He strode along rapidly, came to the beach, found that there was no need of hailing. That shot must have roused Yusuf, for the whaleboat was already heading in through the surf, the second whale boat following. The Malagasys grinned at the skipper; Yusuf splashed ashore, his eyes seeking Trenchard.

“Caught,” said the latter quietly. “We have gold to put aboard, then off. The game was betrayed. We'll have to tow the schooner out to catch the breeze. Those dhows will be along to catch us.”

“All is ready, Rais,” said the Arab composedly. “The rifles are broken out and loaded, the towing hawsers are bent on, the topmasts are up and the sails loosened.”

Trenchard laughed suddenly; then he thought of Ah Sin and the laugh passed in a quick catch of his breath. He could not rid himself of that weight.

“Those torches, Rais Trenchard!” said the Arab. “If the dhows are close by, the reflection will be seen.”

Grenille's party of Hovas was streaming down toward the spot, torches smoking. Trenchard flung an order at his two men, who dropped their torches in the water and ran back to warn the others; the smoky brands were dashed out or hurled into the surf. The moon was high and clear, and in her faint light the Hovas came crowding down to the beach, Grenille among them. They flung their burdens into a pile.

“Ya Allah!” struck out the voice of Yusuf suddenly. “In the name of God, the Compassionate—what is this?”

Trenchard looked down. At his feet had been laid the body of Ah Sin and the senseless figure of the woman, distorted in shape by the swathed bandages.

“It is the will of Allah,” said Trenchard bitterly. “To work!”

NO time was wasted. The Hovas, having delivered their loads and accomplished their errand, were melting away into the obscurity. They were in mad haste to work through the parties of constabulary and reach their own people and villages. Where a moment previously had been a mass of forty or fifty crowding shapes, now remained only Yusuf and the dozen brown men of the schooner's crew, loading the hide packets into the boats. Grenille, who had lighted a cigarette, came up to Trenchard.

“Well, I heard about it,” he said. “We found Svenstrom on the way down. I can imagine a good deal. What about this woman?”

Trenchard faced him, nerves tense.

“We'd better settle it now,” he said quietly, “for I'll have work to do soon enough. She said you'd be glad to kill me and take her if you could. Svenstrom tried that. Let's reach an understanding.”

Grenille stared at him, then chuckled.

“And, after that, you waited?”

“Don't be a fool,” said Trenchard. “How does it stand?”

Grenille stood silent for a moment; then he threw away his cigarette, came a step closer, and laid his hand on Trenchard's shoulder.

“My friend!” he said. His voice was deep with some emotion, curiously rich and tender as a woman's. “We have been horribly blind. I was tempted, yes; what of it? I am a man. She came to me this afternoon on the march, with that same story. It was protection from you she wanted. She tried the same game on each of us. What was her object? I do not know. Deviltry of woman, perhaps. Well, you know me! I am not a monk, me. But now it is different. What is behind all this, I do not know; but there is something behind it. She is not what she seems; I cannot murder a woman, but I tell you that we had better leave that woman here on the beach, and go. I wish now,” and his voice became indescribably mournful, “that I had taken your advice yesterday and had put a bullet into her.”

Trenchard felt a chill run up his spine, for the words were uttered in terrible earnest. He stood silent, looking at the dark waters of the bay, where, a thin mist of dawn crept out from the river-mouth. The gold had been loaded into the two boats, which were run out and held by the brown men to keep them off the sand. Yusuf and another came and took up the body of Ah Sin and laid it in one of the boats. Then they came back to the woman, but Grenille checked them with a somber word.

“Leave her.”

They straightened up, looking from Grenille to Trenchard. The latter stood unmoving, his eyes fastened on the obscured waters. He knew now what to think of Grenille, knew that his faith was well placed, knew that he and Grenille were of one mind. Yes, there was something behind all this. Ah Sin had guessed it, perhaps had extorted the secret from his victim. This woman had come among the three of them, sowing hatred and dissension and treachery. She was responsible for Svenstrom's end. She was responsible for Ah Sin's end. Because of her, Trenchard knew that he had lost faithful friends, had fallen upon disaster; he no longer blinked the fact that she was actually responsible, had done this thing deliberately. Grenille had made this very plain.

And yet he could not forget her appeal to him, there by the river. Whatever she had done, she had repented the action. Perhaps her own insecure position had at first impelled her with frantic fear to divide these men and so save herself; that was natural. In any case, she had later repented. She had urged him to flee while there was time, and she had meant her words; he could still hear that low and vehement urge ringing in his ears, could still feel her fingers gripping into his wrist. She had mentioned having heard of these three men in Tamatave; perhaps, then, she had gained some inkling of the expedition against them, the trap that was being laid to seize Trenchard. That might be why she had urged him to go and save himself. She had been wildly afraid of him, of them all, and afterward had come to him with frank confession. After all, she was but a slender, fragile creature, a woman—

TRENCHARD drew a deep breath, and turned. He looked at the dark shape of Grenille, at the tall Arab and the brown men around.

“There is little time, Rais,” said Yusuf simply.

“Good!” Trenchard made a gesture. “Put the woman in the boat. Grenille, all that you say is true, and more; but I cannot leave her here. She had some knowledge of our danger. Last night she urged me to get away. As you say, I do not know what lies behind all this, but I know that she repented what she had done—she was a woman among us, remember. If all that has happened were her deliberate fault, I should be tempted to leave her here; but it is not. It is fate that has come upon us.”

Grenille sighed, and pawed at his black beard.

“Ah, mon gars, I wish I were a man like you! And yet I am glad that I am not.”

Trenchard smiled slightly. “Right. Now, see here! Perhaps you'd better stay. You're not in any particular danger from the constabulary, and they're not after you. There are dhows somewhere around—Svenstrom was in blind panic, and hit the truth. It's a trap, and we may be nabbed. It's no easy job to get outside the islands and the coral; we'll get no breeze until dawn. Those dhows may be waiting for us. If they're clever enough, I'm afraid we're done for; at best, it'll be a tight squeeze. We've rifles aboard, but they'll do us little good. You had best stay ashore and run no chances.”

Grenille uttered a little grunt.

“It is true,” he said thoughtfully, “that we have had no luck this trip. We have been doomed from the start. I should not be surprised if we have walked into a fine trap set to catch us all. As you say, it is fate—and yet I think there is something behind it. We are like limed birds; the more we flutter, the harder we stick in the snare.”

“All right,” said Trenchard. “Then you stay?”

The other laughed softly. “If there is one thing on which I pride myself, Trenchard, it is my skill with a rifle. Stay? Nom de Dieu, no! We know each other better today than we did yesterday, eh? Allons!”

He took Trenchard's arm, squeezed it, and turned toward the boats. Trenchard made no response, but felt a warm glow in his heart.

Chapter VI

“WE delayed too long,” said Yusuf calmly. “The land breeze has fallen. There is no wind. Yet if it is the will of Allah, we shall get outside the coral when the sun brings the breeze.”

In the obscurity of dawn, the schooner was crawling through the water behind the two boats, her canvas listless. The sky was still clearly visible but the mist had increased, clinging low on the water and veiling everything, in the absence of any breeze. Grenille, quite worn out, had flung himself down and was snoring. Trenchard stood beside Yusuf in the bow, peering at the boats. The Arab had retained some sort of mental map of the coral patches, and stood listening intently to the reports of a man in the first boat, who was constantly heaving the lead and sending back softly floating calls as to the depth encountered. Whether any dhows were lying on their oars behind that enveloping mist, could not be told.

Trenchard, who had been munching some biscuit and tinned meat, went to the breaker and drank, then started aft, filling his pipe as he went. Everything hung now on what would be revealed when the sun came, and the breeze, sweeping away the mist; there was nothing to do but wait. As he lighted his pipe, something stirred on the deck by the rail. He turned toward the object, and then saw that it was Sylvie de Peyrier. She was sit ting against the rail, her eyes open and staring, and she caught her breath in fear before she recognized Trenchard.

“Ah—it is you! Where are we? My arms—”

Trenchard sat down on the deck, facing her, and put out his hands to her right arm.

“You're quite all right,” he said quietly. “Now let me look at this.”

“I remember now.” A shudder passed through her body; then she relaxed and leaned back. “Please don't talk about it. There is no more pain at all. Where are we?”

“Heading out to sea,” said Trenchard, and felt her start slightly.

He lighted a match, the better to examine her arm, momentarily. A glance showed him that the inflammation had entirely vanished; the skin was white and firm, only the criss-cross tracery of scratches remaining. That bandage of leaves had accomplished its work swiftly, for the Hovas are remarkably able people at such things.

As Trenchard let fall the match, the action brought back to him vividly how he had let fall that other match, in the tent, and it seemed that he saw the face of Ah Sin darting toward him. He drew back from the woman; then her fingers closed tightly on his.

“You have taken my advice after all, then?” Her voice was eager.

“It is nearly morning,” said Trenchard. “Grenille returned. When the mist lifts—”

“Morning! Then you are caught,” she said wearily. “Oh, I am sorry, I am sorry! Believe me—I am sorry!”

“I believe you,” said Trenchard. His voice was calm, dispassionate, cold. “You have good reason to be sorry, mademoiselle. If you had not given us a false name, if you had not sown discord among us, nothing would have gone wrong. As it is, Grenille is free of your net. Svenstrom tried to kill me, and is dead. Ah Sin tried to serve me, and that faithful man is dead. He died by my hand. You see what you have done to me.”

SOMETH1NG stopped him there; he had neither reproached her nor asked her questions—he only stated facts. Yet he wished suddenly that he had kept his mouth shut. Both her hands fell about his hand, and drew it up against her breast, holding it there convulsively; he knew that she was choking down sobs, was conscious of the bitter repentance that worked within her. What had evoked this poignant emotion in her? What secret lay behind everything—what secret was it that Ah Sin had tried to torture out of her? He did not know; yet he was aware of her slender delicacy, her brave and even intrepid personality. The consciousness of her sex rushed upon him, left him confused, as she sat there and crushed his hand against her breast, and her tears fell upon his palm.

“I did not know—what sort of man you were,” she said, chokingly. “If I had known, if I had only known! It seemed to me a glorious and splendid thing, a commendable action; oh, miserable that I am! Yes, I see what I have done to you, and I am ashamed.”

Trenchard was rather bewildered. “I don't quite know what you're talking about,” he said, then leaned forward. His voice softened. “If only things had not come about like this! You must not be sorry. You only did what seemed best. I am the one to be sorry; it is I who cannot forget what has happened. Perhaps, if I do manage to forget it, I may come later to find you; you are the sort of woman I have not met before, the sort I have dreamed about—”

He stammered to a pause, for he had spoken impulsively, without thought. One instant, the woman's fingers crushed into his hand, as though something in her were answering his words—then she pushed him away swiftly, impetuously, and with a swift movement sprang to her feet.

“You do not know, you do not know!” Her voice rose in a low cry, a wail, that pierced him to the very depths with its intensity of anguish. Then she whirled swiftly upon him as he rose. “Caught? Yes, you are caught, trapped beyond escape—the dawn is breaking now! But there is one way to get clear. You must take it. I can still undo everything. The men in the dhows are not natives, but white troops—Frenchmen! You comprehend? That alters everything. There is still one way for you to escape.”

The woman's eyes blazed suddenly at him.

“Colonel Sainterre commands the dhows!” she exclaimed. “He is my father. I lied to you—ah, there it is! I must tell you now, for your own sake. It was a question of catching you three men together. I said I would do it—I know the island; I am not a child; I was willing to pit my wits against you three men! I said that I would separate you, cause dissension, keep you at odds until the two dhows could reach here under cover of night. Everything was betrayed to us by a native chief—everything! The problem was to keep you ashore until the dhows came, for we knew the natives would warn you. There it is, all before you—all I have done to you.”

SHE wilted suddenly, crouched against the rail, hid her face in her hands.

Trenchard was absolutely stunned. He had discounted this very possibility, and yet for an instant he could not react to it, could not assimilate the knowledge. It grew upon him slowly, with cumulative force. He thought of how the girl had met them, how she had spoken and acted, how she had worked upon the three of them. The face of Ah Sin uprose before him like a torturing blow, and from his lips came a sound that was wordless—a sound half a groan of sheer anguish.

Then, for a moment, a fearful wave of anger, of stark madness, surged through him. So awful was his blind rage that under it he quivered, trembling; as he was about to hurl himself upon the woman, in the very act of seizing her, he mastered himself. Nothing had been spared him; even to a moment ago when he had spoken to her from his heart, words of love almost at his lips—the memory stung, burned into him like a whip.

“That was too much!” he muttered thickly. At the sound of his voice, she looked up, rose.

“Listen! There is one way, you understand? You must place me somewhere high, that they may see me—that they may know you have me as a hostage! It is the only way possible. They were afraid you might suspect, might hurt me. My father would order them to fire, none the less, but they are white troops, poilus; they all know me. Not a shot will be fired. I will call to them—”

“Be quiet, be quiet,” said Trenchard. Desperation was in his heart, yet his voice was so cold and calm that she stared at him in the dawn-light, astounded.

He turned from her, fumbled for his pipe, stooped and picked it from the deck. He was still reeling under the blow she had dealt him in this confession. A spy—this woman an agent of the police, one who had voluntarily set out to ensnare and trap him! For her sake he had killed Svenstrom; for her sake he had shot down that faithful yellow man; for her sake he had betrayed himself with thoughts of love—no, that was too much!

If Grenille found out what she was, then what? Well, he knew Grenille, and he could guess that no human power could stay that man's vengeance. Grenille would even put a bullet into him before letting vengeance be stayed. Bitterly, with consuming gall, Trenchard realized that even now he was thinking of her safety—that he could think of nothing else. He looked at her, and the realization brought a terrible laugh to his lips. At sound of it, her eyes widened upon him.

“You comprehend?” she exclaimed. “This is the one way. You will do it?”

“No,” said Trenchard curtly.

“But you shall! I will do it myself!” She blazed out furiously at him. “This is the one thing I can do, the only way I can undo what I have done—it must be! You must do it! It is my only chance! Oh, can't you see what I think of myself now, how I look at myself? It is the only thing I can do. You cannot stop me—I will cry out to them—”

Trenchard perceived that this was true. She was verging upon a wild frenzy which he could not check; excited, a prey to remorse and grief, carried beyond her calm poise, she would carry out her threat. He raised his hand, checking her.

“Wait here a moment,” he said quietly, and then turned from her and strode forward, leaving her to stare after him.

HER uncertainty of his intention gave her pause. Trenchard passed the snoring form of Grenille, struck a match, held it steadily to his pipe as he walked forward. The dawn was now lightening fast; the mist was moving. He knew what he must do, and knew that it must be done swiftly if at all. He came to the bows where Yusuf stood, and removed his white coat.

“How long?”

“Allah alone knows, Rais.” Yusuf turned to glance at him. “Perhaps ten minutes.”

“Good. We are caught—the two dhows have soldiers aboard. There is a current here?”

“A slight shore current, Rais. Farther out it becomes strong and sets to the south. Just here it sets in to the shore, with the tide.”

“Good. Take this and rip it up.” Trenchard passed his coat to the Arab. “Call in one of the boats and bring the men aboard. Swiftly!”

Yusuf did not hesitate, though for once he could not fathom the skipper's thought or intention. He called softly, and the nearer boat made response. He jerked the long knife from its sheath at his waist, and plunged it into the soiled white pongee coat. Then Trenchard, taking the pipe from his mouth, jerked it toward the stern.

“Go and bind that woman. Gag her first. Bring her here. But do not, on your life, hurt her! Do it swiftly, before she understands.”

“Ha'am, Rais.”

THE tall figure of the Arab departed at a bound. Trenchard did not look around, though his senses were listening acutely, but leaned forward and peered down. After an instant he saw the boat creeping in upon her hawser to the bows.

“Come aboard swiftly and bring all the gear with you,” he ordered the six men in her.

Then a low cry sounded from aft. It was the voice of the girl—a low, shrill cry that rose and was checked, cut off, very abruptly. Trenchard did not look around. He stood puffing at his pipe. A gasping curse sounded, then the pound of feet, and Grenille was gripping at his arm.

“Trenchard—nom de Dieu, look! What's that Arab of yours about—the woman—”

Trenchard looked into his excited, bewildered face with cold eyes.

“I am in command here,” he said quietly.

Grenille fell back, glanced around, then stood staring in perplexity. Yusuf was striding toward them, bearing across one shoulder the tied, gagged, struggling figure of the girl. Over the rail were coming the brown seamen from the boat, laughing and gazing at the spectacle.

“Go down and be ready to take her,” said Trenchard to Yusuf, and held out his arms.

For a moment he looked into the face of the girl, met her eyes, smiled slightly as he held her.

“The boat will drift you ashore,” he said, very calmly. “They will find you. You will be in no danger, and with us the contrary would be true. I forgive you what you have done to me, mademoiselle. Bon voyage.”

He caught her up in both arms, held her over the rail, and carefully dropped her into the strong grip of the grinning Arab below. Yusuf placed her in the stern of the boat, then came up over the rail like a cat.

“The breeze, Rais, the breeze!” he exclaimed. “I can smell it!”

“Call in the other boat.”

“And this one, then?” Yusuf glanced at him, pointed down at the boat in which the figure of the girl lay. Trenchard shrugged and replaced the pipe between his teeth.

“Cut it loose. Now, Grenille, you had better get your rifle. Perhaps you'd like to pick out the best of the lot? You'll find them over here by the hatch, where the gold is piled.”

Grenille followed him, pawing at his beard and wondering. Yusuf, with a slash of his knife, set free the boat.

The mist was clearing fast.

Chapter VII

AROUND the schooner the mist dissipated, eddying up, swirling in queer writhing shapes like phantoms twisting in agony at the coming of day. Grenille was choosing a rifle and putting cartridges into his jacket pocket. Trenchard and Yusuf went to the wheel; while the Arab examined the waters ahead and around, Trenchard spun over the spokes and felt the helm. Then Yusuf, comprehending that Trenchard would keep the wheel, laid a hand on his arm and pointed.

“I remember the patches exactly, Rais. There—if the current does not shift us before the wind strikes—there is a passage out. East by north, a quarter north.”

“Right,” said Trenchard.

Yusuf went forward, called the men, sent them to stations. The first puff of breeze slapped the listless canvas aloft. There was a creak as the boom swung, then swung back. The mist rolled away like a curtain, suddenly, piled up in a wall astern, hung there. All around, ahead and to starboard, the sea was clear as by magic. The canvas gently filled; the water rippled under the schooner's counter; scarcely heeling to that light breath, the schooner pointed for the eastern horizon where the first radiance of dawn was touching the heavens with a roseate brush. Except for this, everything was gray—that pallid corpse-gray of the very early morning, cold and cheerless; when for a few moments all the world looks like some plant that has grown up in the darkness, unfed of sunlight; when gray sky blends into gray sea, and gray mist dims the stars, and the gray heart of man looks to the coming sun in wonder and adoration.

It was not to the sky that every eye aboard the schooner now turned, however. Behind her, the lessening mist hid the islands and coast and the cast-off whale-boat; ahead of her, not five cable-lengths distant—a scant half-mile—two blotches lay on the water. Perhaps deceived by the mist, the two dhows had run a little past the clump of islands and now had headed back. The schooner was quite cut off.

TRENCHARD, after that first sweeping glance, determined instantly on his plan and swung over the helm. He knew exactly where the reef lay, though it was hidden from sight, and knew exactly where the channel led through it to the safe water beyond. The closer dhow lay just inside that channel; the farther one was outside and to the south of it, bearing up for it. Both dhows had laid in their sweeps and their canvas was catching the faint breeze; they could far outmatch the schooner, being incredibly fast and able to head almost into the wind's eye. Trenchard watched them intently; each was about fifty feet in length, carrying a large sail forward, in shape, a triangle with a corner cut off, and on the aftermast a small lateen. The masts raked forward. They were old-fashioned craft, decked fore and aft but open amidships, probably put together with Cairo lashings in place of nails, the beams projecting through the sides. The decks were littered with bales of cargo. Trenchard could make out only a scant dozen figures aboard each craft, and his lip curled as he watched them bracing the yards forward and hauling in the bowliness of the larger sail, the better to catch the light wind.

“And they expect to trap me with that clumsy artifice!” he muttered. “As though I wouldn't guess that soldiers lie under the tarpaulins, and that the bales for'ard hide a gun! It's an insult—the fools! They had to get a woman to do the real work for them. Well, they might as well take me for a pure Simple Simon; here goes for the reef.”

SO, with barely enough way on her to answer as the helm spun, the schooner pointed up past the nearer dhow, directly for the unseen reef. It was plainly no tack. Trenchard, to all appearance, was ignorant of the danger and would pile up his ship on the coral. It was keenly significant, however, that though the mate Yusuf darted one glance ahead at the sea, he did not turn to question Trenchard's change of course. As for Grenille, who was lying in the bows on some coiled lines, he knew nothing about the coral danger.

Those aboard the dhow knew, however. That slight and inscrutable smile played around Trenchard's lips as he saw a motion of the tarpaulins flung in the dhow's waist, which instantly subsided. Those aboard her had decided to wait before flinging off the mask—if the schooner piled up, so much the better! The farther dhow was not, as yet, a danger to be reckoned with. In the eastern sky, a rosy glow was being limned across the horizon.

“Watch, Yusuf!” called Trenchard quietly. The Arab lifted a hand in response and stood peering intently at the water ahead, perfectly comprehending the strategem.

The breeze remained steady, but very light, so light that the schooner hardly heeled at all as she slipped through the water, heading northeast directly for the reef. The channel lay more to the east, with the first dhow just inside; the light breath of air was from the southeast, and she had hauled around before it. From the comer of his eye Trenchard saw that his Malagasys were ranged along the starboard rail, out of sight, each man excitedly waiting and fingering hidden rifle. He himself stood easily at the wheel, pipe in teeth, fingering the spokes lightly, just keeping the canvas filled; with every instant the schooner, responsive in his hands as though obeying his very will, rushed faster and faster toward the unseen pinnacles of coral that waited to rip the sheathing out of her. The first dhow was three hundred yards away now, as she slipped across its bows.

Then, swiftly Yusuf threw out both hands.

Trenchard threw over the spokes, snapped out a curt order. The brown men dropped their rifles, leaped to the lines, made all fast, darted back to the rail again. Close-hauled, the schooner swerved aside, leaned into the wind as far as Trenchard dared thrust her, went rushing down past the dhow toward the channel. Yusuf made a gesture to show that her head was right, and then dropped from sight behind the bulwark.

Though he knew how surely they were trapped, Trenchard thought for an instant that the surprise of his action would win. The breeze was freshening. The schooner drove down past the dhow, and he knew that he would pass her within a hundred yards. Two hundred now, and leaning over to the swifter urge of the wind; still no movement aboard the dhow, until suddenly the tarpaulins were hurled aside. Movement enough, then!

Voices rang out, sharp commands, excited cries and oaths. Amidships, the dhow vomited men clad in white, sparkles of gold and scarlet, gleams of rifles. Up on her foredeck, the bales were hurled aside; half a dozen men appeared there, the long brassy gleam of a one-pounder swept into sight.

“Pom!”

The gun spat. There was no warning, no signal to consider; these men knew with whom they were dealing. The brass tube snapped out a vomit of white, Trenchard [heard the sh]ell scream and whistle jus[t above him]. Then, as though in [answer to the] boom of the shot, there appeared on the bows of the schooner a (illegible text). Yusuf cried angrily at (illegible text) but none of them had [stayed the]re awaiting his order. It (illegible text)

[Across the one-]pounder fell its gunner.

[Men rush]ed up; the dead man was [removed]; along the 'midships of the [dhow voice]s snapped out and rifles began to (illegible text) the air, bullets singing overhead, slapping into the schooner. Again that rifle in her bows spoke out; a second gunner fell across the silent brass piece. A third joined him in death. Grenille was firing more rapidly now. Seven times his rifle cracked; then he drew back and began to reload, coolly, lifting his bearded face toward Trenchard in a wild grin. The six men around the pom-pom were dead.

Confusion filled the dhow. The schooner was abreast of her now, starboard rail lifted high as she leaned to the wind, lifted like a wall to keep her deck invisible. The soldiers were firing rapidly, furiously, the rapid crepitation of their shots volleying on the wind; they could see only the torso of Trenchard, who was staring fixedly ahead at the channel, where the second dhow was now coming up to cut off his escape. He scarcely felt the whistling breath of the bullets that slapped and sang all around him; untouched, he stood heaving slightly at the spokes, keeping the canvas filled, keeping the schooner dead on her course.

“W'Allah!” cried Yusuf. “Fire!”

The brown men streamed up along the rail, yelling, and a ragged volley tore into the dhow that lay now a short hundred yards away. Men fell; there was a storm of cursing and wild shouts, wilder orders. Grenille leaped to his feet and began to fire again. His rifle was worth all the others put together. The sparks of scarlet and blue and gold disappeared, as he picked off the officers with deadly precision. Three men leaping for the silent gun on the foredeck came together, staggered, and Grenille laughed as he turned his rifle on them. The three went down one by one. Disabled, clumped with dead and wounded, officers gone, the dhow fell off into the wind and drifted.

“Past!” shouted Grenille triumphantly, as he came running aft, a blaze of excitement in his great brown eyes.

“And trapped,” corrected Trenchard, then his voice leaped out in a quick and piercing shout. “Down! Down! All hands, down!”

Yusuf and the Malagasys obeyed by instinct, flinging themselves anywhere along the deck. Grenille, however, whirled about and stood staring.

The first dhow was passed, and the schooner was in the channel, boring through to pass a little south and to windward bf the second dhow. This latter, however, had received full warning. She too had leaped into sudden life and activity; instead of a one-pounder on her foredeck, was visible the shape of a rapid-fire gun. Even before Trenchard's shout died, this gun began its horrible chatter and spatter.

GRENILLE, who had failed to obey the warning, pitched forward to the deck and slid down against the lee rail, and lay in a heap there. Little shelter could be had—the whole slope of the deck was fearfully exposed. Trenchard saw the white splinters fly in an arc of destruction as the quick-firer poured lead into her victim, as the soldiers let loose a volley. Splinters leaped from the mast and spars; the flying jib bellied out and began to thrash as the lines were cut. One of the brown men cried out and then rolled across the deck, bleeding terribly. Another, darting for cover, fell across the skylight and hung limp.

An instant more of this would be destruction, for that spattering machine gun had full command of the sloping deck. Another man, at the upper rail near Trenchard, threw out his arms and fell. His rifle, flung out in that dying gesture, hurled through the air and smashed Trenchard in the side. The next instant he felt a second crashing blow which almost knocked him from the helm, and he knew that he was hit.

Already he was leaning on the spokes, whirling them over, desperately flinging his weight into them. To sweep past that dhow would be hopeless—the very deck would be ripped out of the schooner. Already she was so close aboard that Trenchard could see the excited faces of the soldiers, the shouting officers, tho gunners deliberately raking and laughing as they swept the canting deck. Then, as the helm brought the schooner over, as her bows swung about and the close-hauled canvas made her lean and heel in the wind, all this vanished. He saw only the dhow's sharp stern under his own bowsprit; over went the schooner, over until her copper glinted against the radiant eastern sky, over until the water came tumbling along her lee rail in green and gray foam, and flew like an arrow down the wind.

Trenchard held her there, held that sharp stern in his vision, though the strength was lessening in him and now he felt a numb hurt reaching through his body. A rattling roar vomited from the rapid-fire; volleys came from the rifles; the bows and fore-rail of the schooner let fly white splinters and her sails leaped into holes and tatters; a wild, frightful chorus of yells and shouts dinned in the ears of Trenchard. He smiled a little, glanced back at the land, saw that the mist had rolled away and that the black dot of a whaleboat was under the shore. Then he found Grenille creeping up the deck on hands and knees, soaked, blood streaming down his face and beard, saw Yusuf rushing at him from the other side, felt himself staggering.

SUDDENLY and dreadfully, the bows of the schooner lifted up. Her forefoot crushed down and then up, riding something that was not a wave, then slowly crunched down and over. A fearful shriek rose around her and swallowed up. She reeled, her canvas fluttered as she came upright for an instant; she stopped in mid-career, the masts shaking against the sky, the rigging whining and snapping taut with sharp reports, the canvas banging. Then Yusuf had the helm and swung it over, and she leaned once more to the wind and thrust a whirl of spray over the bows—and thrust something else beneath her keel, grinding and spurning it.

Trenchard, flung along the deck together with the brown men, dragged himself up to the rail and then pulled erect, a strange numb weakness seizing on him. He looked back, back past the staring Yusuf, back to where a shattered brass hung low in the water behind. Grenille clawed up to him, followed his gaze a moment, then turned and put out a hand.

“You—look!”

Trenchard glanced down at himself, saw the blood dripping over shirt and trousers, and laughed. He was [not awa]re of the brown men running to and fro; of Yusuf bawling orders, of the (illegible text)nd bellowing out to get (illegible text) wind. The schooner rig[hted herself and Tren]chard's brain cleared, and [he said:]

“Look—there to the left!”

Grenille twisted around, [eyes followed his] pointing finger, and discerned [the bulk] of the whaleboat against (illegible text) and cliffs. He turned b[ack to Trenchard] with an oath.

“Devil take the woman!”

“No matter.” Trenchard s[miled at him.] “That boat—that woman—”

“Yes?” prompted Grenille, staring at him.

“Punished,” said Trenchard. A grimace twisted his pallid lips. “Punished. They'll pick her up—oh, she's safe enough! But punished—”

He lost his grip of the rail. Grenille caught him as he went limp, lowered him to die deck, and saw that the smile had returned to his lips.

“The Barren Islands,” a sequel to this thrilling drama of a little-known region, will be Mr. Bedford-Jones welcome contribution to our forthcoming June issue.