And slowly and jerkily he wrote, in letters that fell about the page,--"Carette--Torode--" and then the charcoal fell out of his hand and he rolled in a heap on the floor.
My heart gave a broken kick and fell sickly.

It dropped in a moment to what had happened.

Failing to end us, Torode had swung round Le Tas and run for Brecqhou, where Carette, alone with her two sick men, would be completely at his mercy.

He would carry her off, gather his gear on Herm, and be away before Peter Port could lift a hand to stop him.

If I held his life in my hand, he held in his what was dearer far than life to me.