Then the Saint replaced the knives in their sheaths and went over to Patricia. He took her in his arms and kissed her; and, the reaction coming at last, she clung to him like a child, and the Saint was murmuring soothing and meaningless things to stop her trembling.
“Now, Mr. Templar,” said the Tiger, “you may take your friends and get away in one of the boats. I am staying behind to settle accounts with my friends.”
Simon passed the girl over to Orace.
“I’ll follow in a moment.”
Patricia went, with Orace’s protecting arm around her, but the Tiger stopped them at the door and took the girl’s hand.
“You will never be able to forgive me,” he said, “and I am only thankful, now, that the power to do you any harm was taken away from me. I am a bad man, and I have blood on my hands, but you are the first woman who ever tempted me to forget my chivalry.”
He kissed her hand, and then Orace led her away.
The Tiger looked at Simon.
“It’s a queer whim,” he said—“but I should like to shake hands with you.”
“You make it difficult for me,” answered the Saint. “I’m rather sorry you’ve taken things so sportingly. But I’ll shake hands for that very reason.”