"This is life."
The boy was looking behind him. He could not see the pursuing boat, but he could hear the sizzle of foam under her keel as she slipped through the water, and the rhythmical sweep of oars.
There was a terrible beauty about it—this swooping of Death on them out of the fog. He could hear the wings he could not see. She was close now, the Angel of the Swarthy Pinions.
On the thwart lay a pistol. He snatched it.
"Good boy!" panted the Gentleman.
Kit glanced forward.
He could see the loom of the land.
"There's the shore, sir!" he cried.
"And here are they!" gasped the other. "Pretty thing, by Jove!"
A boat's bows shot up behind them. A figure was standing in the stern.