“Swing the light around your head twice,” he called, softly.
The sailor obeyed and instantly the yacht’s searchlight crept along the water until it rested with sudden brilliancy on the stern of the Southern Cross and on Ouro Preto where he clung to the Jacob’s ladder with Lillian in his arms.
For only an instant he clung; then he descended the last two or three steps of the ladder and when the next wave came let go his hold and dropped upon its crest.
The fall carried the two beneath the surface, but the life preservers brought them up again as quickly as a bobbing cork. In the interval, brief as it was, the Southern Cross had drawn away; the count could see her stern light rapidly lessening in the distance. The yacht’s searchlight came and went, sweeping over him often enough to prevent his being lost in the waters, but not often enough to attract belated attention from the Southern Cross.
Then Lillian revived, drawn back to life by the shock of the chill water. Half conscious, bewildered, terror stricken, she struggled desperately to free herself from the count and he let her go for an instant only to grasp hold of her life belt again as a wave tried to force them apart.
“It’s all right, Miss Byrd,” he declared. “It’s all right. Don’t be frightened.”
But Lillian would not heed. “Help! Help!” she screamed across the water.
Ouro Preto made no effort to check her. “It is of no use, senorita,” he declared, simply. “The Southern Cross is half a mile away and cannot hear you.”
Miss Byrd gripped at her sinking courage. She realized that she was not drowning, and she tried desperately to calm herself. “How dare you?” she choked. “How dare you?”
The count shrugged his shoulders. “I was forced,” he explained. “I could not let you wreck the plan of years. Believe me, senorita, it grieves me to the heart to use such means as these. I love you and—”