quenching of that intense brilliancy we lost sight of the human
figures on deck and could not imagine what was to happen next. The
dark shore looked darker than ever,--the outline of the yacht was
now truly spectral, like a ship of black cobweb against the moon,
and we looked questioningly at each other in silence. Then Mr.
Harland spoke in a low tone.

"The boat is coming back,"--he said,--"I hear the oars."

I leaned over the side of our vessel and tried to see through the
gloom. How still the water was!--not a ripple disturbed its surface.
But there were strange gleams of wandering light in its depths like
dropped jewels lost on sands far below. The regular dip of oars
sounded nearer and nearer. My heart was beating with painful
quickness,--I could not understand the strange feeling that
overpowered me. I felt as if my very soul were going out of my body
to meet that oncoming boat which was cleaving its way through the
darkness. Another brief interval and then we saw it shoot out into a
patch of moonlight--we could perceive Mr. Swinton seated in the
stern with another figure beside him--that of a man who stood up as
he neared our yacht and lifted his cap with an easy gesture of
salutation, and then as the boat came alongside, caught at the guide
rope and sprang lightly on the first step of the companion ladder.

"Why, he's actually come over to us himself!" ejaculated Mr.
Harland,--and he hurried to the gangway just in time to receive the
visitor as he stepped on deck.

"Well, Harland, how are you?" said a mellow voice in the cheeriest
of accents--"It's strange we should meet like this after so many