And the white figure in the bows was truly Nance, and she was standing and waving and calling to him. And the grey-headed man aft was surely Philip Guille, the Sénéchal, and the faces of the rest were all friendly.
He stumbled hastily down to the lower ledges, but the rush and the roar there drowned their voices.
What were they trying to tell him? What could they want of him?
The Sénéchal was standing, hands to mouth, waiting his chance. The restless waters below drew back for a moment to gather for a leap, and the big voice came booming across the tumult—
"Jump! We'll pick you up! All is well!"
And Gard, without a moment's hesitation, sprang out into the marbled foam, and struck out for the boat.
They were all friendly hands that gripped him and hauled him over the side, and patted him on the back to get the water out of him—all friendly faces that were turned to him; and the dearest face of all, lighted with a heavenly gladness, was to him as the face of an angel.
"Tell me!" he gasped, still all astream, wits and clothes alike. And it was the Sénéchal who told him.
"Peter Mauger was killed last night, at the same place as Tom Hamon, and in the same way. So these hot-blooded thickheads are convinced at last that it wasn't your work."
"Peter Mauger!" he said, gazing vaguely at them all. "But who—"