But as he spoke, they saw the carriage plunging out of the shadow
of the woods and the horses galloping toward them down the
beach. MacWilliams gave a cheer of welcome. ``Hurrah!'' he
shouted, ``it's Jose' coming for us. He's a good man. Well
done, Jose'!'' he called.

``That's not Jose','' Langham cried, doubtfully, peering
through the moonlight. ``Good God! It's Hope,'' he exclaimed.
He waved his hands frantically above his head. ``Go back,
Hope,'' he cried, ``go back!''

But the carriage did not swerve on its way toward them. They all
saw her now distinctly. She was on the driver's box and alone,
leaning forward and lashing the horses' backs with the whip and
reins, and bending over to avoid the bullets that passed above
her head. As she came down upon them, she stood up, her woman's
figure outlined clearly in the riding habit she still wore.
``Jump in when I turn,'' she cried. ``I'm going to turn slowly,
run and jump in.''

She bent forward again and pulled the horses to the right, and as
they obeyed her, plunging and tugging at their bits, as though
they knew the danger they were in, the men threw themselves at
the carriage. Clay caught the hood at the back, swung himself
up, and scrambled over the cushions and up to the box seat. He
dropped down behind Hope, and reaching his arms around her took
the reins in one hand, and with the other forced her down to
her knees upon the footboard, so that, as she knelt, his arms and
body protected her from the bullets sent after them. Langham
followed Clay, and tumbled into the carriage over the hood at the