“If he should slip,” she said to herself, as she tightened her grasp of her father’s thin arm, “if he should slip!” and she shuddered as she gazed down into the deep, black rushing water, where the star reflections were all broken up and sparkled deep down as if the current were charged with gold-dust, swirling and eddying by. Then she started as her father spoke aloud to himself.
“No, no, no!” he murmured. Then sharply, “Come, let us get back.”
Louise crept along by him in silence, her heart giving one violent leap, as Vine slipped once on the spray-swept rocks, but recovered himself and went on without a word. Again and again she suffered that terrible catching of the breath, as her father slipped, caught his foot in some inequality, or would, but for her guidance, have stumbled over some projecting rock post and been thrown into the harbour. For, as he walked on, his eyes were constantly searching the dark surface as he listened intently for some token of the escaping man.
But all was still as they neared the town, still with the silence of death. No one could have told that there were watchers by the ferry, where a rough boat was used for crossing from side to side of the harbour; that two boats were waiting, and that Duncan Leslie was patrolling the short arm of granite masonry that ran down to the tower-like building where the harbour lantern burned.
“Hist!” whispered Louise, for there was a step some little distance away, but it ceased, and as she looked in its direction, the cliffs seemed to tower up behind the town till a black, jagged ridge cut the starry sky.
“Let’s go back,” said her father, huskily. “I fancied I heard a boat stealing along the harbour; we cannot see the lugger light from here.”
“George!” came from out of the darkness ahead.
“Yes, Luke!” was whispered back sharply, and the old man came up.
“Seen anything of him?”
“No. Have, you?”