is any firing now, you ladies want to get down on your knees here
at my feet, and hide your heads in the cushions. We are entering
Los Bocos.''

Langham and Clay were riding far in advance, scouting to the
right and left, and the carriage moved noiselessly behind them
through the empty streets. There was no light in any of the
windows, and not even a dog barked, or a cock crowed. The women
sat erect, listening for the first signal of an attack, each
holding the other's hand and looking at MacWilliams, who sat with
his thumb on the trigger of his carbine, glancing to the right
and left and breathing quickly. His eyes twinkled, like
those of a little fox terrier. The men dropped back, and drew up
on a level with the carriage.

``We are all right, so far,'' Clay whispered. ``The beach slopes
down from the other side of that line of trees. What is the
matter with you?'' he demanded, suddenly, looking up at the
driver, ``are you afraid?''

``No,'' the man answered, hurriedly, his voice shaking; ``it's
the cold.''

Langham had galloped on ahead and as he passed through the trees
and came out upon the beach, he saw a broad stretch of moonlit
water and the lights from the yacht shining from a point a
quarter of a mile off shore. Among the rocks on the edge of the
beach was the ``Vesta's'' longboat and her crew seated in it or
standing about on the beach. The carriage had stopped under the
protecting shadow of the trees, and he raced back toward it.