and was the last to leave them when the small boats, having
filled the ship's casks with fresh water, were pushed out
toward the waiting Fuwalda.

As the boats moved slowly over the smooth waters of the
bay, Clayton and his wife stood silently watching their
departure--in the breasts of both a feeling of impending
disaster and utter hopelessness.

And behind them, over the edge of a low ridge, other eyes
watched--close set, wicked eyes, gleaming beneath shaggy brows.

As the Fuwalda passed through the narrow entrance to the
harbor and out of sight behind a projecting point, Lady Alice
threw her arms about Clayton's neck and burst into uncontrolled sobs.

Bravely had she faced the dangers of the mutiny; with heroic
fortitude she had looked into the terrible future; but now
that the horror of absolute solitude was upon them, her
overwrought nerves gave way, and the reaction came.

He did not attempt to check her tears. It were better that
nature have her way in relieving these long-pent emotions, and
it was many minutes before the girl--little more than a child
she was--could again gain mastery of herself.

"Oh, John," she cried at last, "the horror of it. What are we
to do? What are we to do?"

"There is but one thing to do, Alice," and he spoke as quietly