There was opening from Lord Vincent's dressing room a bay window, having a balcony on the outside, overhanging the sea. The viscount took a night telescope, opened the window, and stepped out upon the balcony. He adjusted the glass and swept the coast. Nothing was to be seen but the solitary vessel that lay at anchor almost under the castle walls.
"The coast is clear," said the viscount to himself, as he re-entered the room and replaced the telescope.
Then wrapping himself in a large maud and pulling a slouched hat over his eyes, he left the room, descended the stairs and went out.
He took the way down to the sands at the extreme base of the promontory. The path that led down the side of the cliff was steep, slippery, and very dangerous even at noonday. And this was one of the darkest hours of the night that precedes the dawn. And the path was more perilous than ever. But the viscount was Highland-bred, and his step was as sure on the steep mountain edge as on the level plain. He reached the foot of the precipice in safety and stood upon the sands and drew from his pocket a small whistle, which he placed to his lips and blew a shrill call.
It was answered from the vessel at anchor. And soon a boat was put off from her side, and rowed swiftly to the shore.
"Is that you, Costo?" inquired the viscount of the man who jumped ashore.
"No, senor; it is Paolo."
"The mate?"
"Yes, senor."
"Where is Costo?"