a sand-dune, and with a memory swept clear of later prayers, presently
began in a frightened whisper to say his

"Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John--"

Half-way down the pallid beach stood Ferne, visible enough even by the
starlight, now and then completely shown by one strong lightning flash.
His doublet was thrown aside, his right arm advanced, his hand grasping
the hilt of his drawn sword. But the sword point was lowered, his breast
bared; he stood like one who awaits, who invites, the last thrust, in
mortal surrender to an invisible foe. The lines of the figure expressed
a certain weariness and suspense, as of one who would that all was over,
and who finds the victor strangely tardy. The face, seen by the
occasional lightning flash, was a little raised, a little expectant.

Robin-a-dale, seeing and comprehending, buried his head in his arms and
with his fingers dug into the sand. Now and then he looked up, but
always there was the pallid slope of the beach, the intermittent break
of the surf that was like the inflection of a voice low and far away,
the stars and the groups of stars, strange, strange after those of home,
the lightning from the western heavens, the duellist awaiting with
lowered point the coming of that antagonist who had so fiercely lived,
so fiercely died, so fiercely hated that to the reeling brain of his
challenger it well might seem that Death, now holding the door between
betrayed and betrayer might not prevail.

The boy's heart was a stone within him, and he saw not why God allowed
much that went on beneath His throne. A long time he endured, half prone
upon the sand, hating the sound of the surf, hating the flash of the
lightning; but at last, when a great part of the night had passed, he