"About two minutes, I think," said the lieutenant, nervously.
"You will run away with the fall at the first or last stroke of the bell?"
"The last, sir."
"No more," said O'Neill to Coventry, turning his face in the direction of the shore. The deep voice of the white-robed priest alone broke the silence,--
"'Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not Thy merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour, Thou most worthy Judge eternal, suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from Thee.'"
Out on the water a white-sailed little boat was speeding swiftly toward them. There was a woman in it. The eyes of love, even in the presence of death, are keen, perhaps even keener then than ever. It was Elizabeth Howard. O'Neill recognized her at once. Good heavens! Why had she come here? She would arrive in time to see him swinging lifeless from the yard-arm,--a hideous sight for any woman. He could not take his eyes from her.
"See!" he whispered to Coventry, "that boat yonder; she is there."
"My God!" said the officer. "What shall we do?"
"Nothing; 'tis too late."
"She has something in her hand," cried Coventry. "What can it be?"