Aylmer waved her back.
"There is another!" he shouted. "Hold on if you can! Hold on!" and so plunged back into the surf. For the second time she braced herself to endure the strain—to wait—to agonize with expectation. And again Fate played with her, racked her between hope and fear, drew out the strain and then, as suddenly, relaxed it. Aylmer crept out upon the stones, gasping, doggedly clinging to a new burden.
This time it was the bearer who staggered and fell, the burden who rose unsteadily, and peered into his rescuer's face.
She dropped upon her knees beside him. Pale, clean-cut ascetic features were lifted to hers. Two dark brown eyes inspected her with startled incredulity.
And then the man rose and—the act was instinctive, it was obvious—doffed his hat.
"Signora," he said in Italian. "Signora! This is Salicudi, is it not? I am at a loss—I do not understand."
For a moment she hesitated, looking at him. The long black garment which clung about him reached to his feet. Suddenly she recognized it, and, with recognition, a little cry escaped her. It was a soutane. And this was no sailor. She was confronted by a priest.
As she opened her lips to find a reply, something clattered behind her; something rushed, calling upon the names of innumerable saints, out of the darkness, and seized her shoulder. A harsh voice rang into the echoes of the night.
"To me—to me, all of you! They are escaping! Blood of My Lady, the prisoners are loose!"
The man in the soutane whirled fiercely upon the newcomer. And as he turned the moon broke through the scurry of the drift and fell upon the group in cold brilliance.