It must be; it was, Beebee.
But see; she is still ten feet at least above the ground, when from the window, high above, comes a piercing shriek.
The slaves have awakened and given the alarm.
Beebee has paused in her descent. She is petrified with fear.
Next moment she lets go her hold and falls.
Ah! but inanimate though she be, for she has fainted, she is safe. Strong arms have caught her; and next moment, while the great bell of our prison villa clangs forth from the turret its iron notes of alarm, we dash into the deepest, darkest part of the wood, guided by Antonio, the priest, who is carrying Beebee, and in a few minutes more are close by the river’s brink.
Clang—clang—clang, goes the dreadful bell!
There is not a moment to lose. Lights are already springing up here and there, by the side of the dark stream. A boat is now liable to be intercepted or even fired upon.
Antonio steps lightly into the skiff. Miss Morgan—I still clinging to her shoulder—quickly follows, and takes Beebee, still insensible, from his arms.
One light push, one touch of the oars, and we are off and away into mid-stream, and soon speeding down the dark river to freedom and to safety.