"They've found my painter," whispered Tom, "and in a second they'll find the sailor on their deck."
The lights of the Southern Cross grew dim; vanished; the sound of angry voices became muffled. They were half-way to shore when they heard the noise of oars again. Evidently some one had started in pursuit. For a moment Tom rested, listening intently; but the sound was still some distance away. Probably, he thought, they were heading directly for the shore, whereas he, at a considerable angle, was making for the boathouse at the north end of the beach. In ten minutes he had beached the canoe within a rod of the point from where he embarked.
"I can't hear them," whispered Tom, after a moment's listening. "They've made for shore down the beach. They can't find us in the dark. I've got Fleetwing tied to a fence in the meadow yonder. Come."
It was the work of a moment to stow the canoe, lock the boathouse, run across the sands, and mount Nancy in front of him on the back of his trusty hunter. A second later Fleetwing's hoofs were striking fire on the stones that the high tides had washed into the beach road. In the distance there was a cry, the sharp ring of a pistol shot; but they were safe on their way, racing wildly for the Inn. The escape, the adventure had thrilled Nancy. Tom's arms were around her, and her hands on his that grasped the bridle. At last they were in the avenue, and Tom pulled in under the great branches of the Red Oak. He slipped from the back of the horse and held out his arms to Nance.
"We are safe, girl," he whispered.
"You are sure? Oh, thank God, thank God! Quick, let us in! Can they be following?"
"No, no. They won't follow. It's all right. Easy,—before we go in—please, dear—once—kiss me."
"Oh, Tom, Tom," she whispered, as she lifted her face to his.
"I have you at last, sweetheart," he murmured. "You love me?"
"Ah!" she cried, "with my whole heart and soul."