"They will get the poor barky," I stammered out suddenly, almost on the verge of tears.
Dominic stirred no more than a carving. A sense of catastrophic loneliness overcame my inexperienced soul. The vision of my companions passed before me. The whole Royalist gang was in Monte Carlo now, I reckoned. And they appeared to me clear-cut and very small, with affected voices and stiff gestures, like a procession of rigid marionettes upon a toy stage. I gave a start. What was this? A mysterious, remorseless whisper came from within the motionless black hood at my side.
"Il faut la tuer."
I heard it very well.
"What do you say, Dominic?" I asked, moving nothing but my lips.
And the whisper within the hood repeated mysteriously, "She must be killed."
My heart began to beat violently.
"That's it," I faltered out. "But how?"
"You love her well?"
"I do."
"Then you must find the heart for that work too. You must steer her yourself, and I shall see to it that she dies quickly, without leaving as much as a chip behind."
"Can you?" I murmured, fascinated by the black hood turned immovably over the stern, as if in unlawful communion with that old sea of magicians, slave-dealers, exiles and warriors, the sea of legends and terrors, where the mariners of remote antiquity used to hear the restless shade of an old wanderer weep aloud in the dark.
"I know a rock," whispered the initiated voice within the hood secretly. "But—caution! It must be
