“Where is the young lady?” they asked.
“We lost the oars, and she has drifted out to sea. God help her!”
“Coward!” shouted the crowd, who are usually blind and unreasoning.
“Nobody’ll believe such a yarn,” said one.
“We heard cries of ‘Murder!’ ’way back here on the shore,” shouted others, for there is always a class of persons who fill life with imaginary evils, as though it were not full enough of real ones.
“Arrest him—he deserves lynching,” said others, who knew and honored the young girl who was now missing.
“Man a boat and let us go and bring her back,” persisted young Farneaux, but the people laughed him to scorn. The case was plainly against him. He had taken her out and came back without her. He could swim and she could not, and he had basely deserted or murdered her. Besides, no rowboat could live in the fast-increasing waves. The officers hurried Farneaux off to jail, and he was indicted for homicide. In vain he protested; in vain he begged for clemency till the matter could be investigated. No, they would keep him close in hand, and if anything favorable developed they would give him the benefit.
Meantime what had become of the rowboat? It had drifted out into the deep ocean with its helpless occupant. The sun went down in a blaze of light, but the beautiful red and orange colors brought no joy to the eyes that peered in vain toward the horizon.
“Mr. Farneaux would not desert me,” she murmured. “Where can he be?” and she shaded her eyes with her hand, hoping to see the dim outline of a human being.