LITMIR.BIZ

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softly in his stockinged feet, Adair advanced close to the bed.

      “Give me your hand, Adair. God bless you,” he whispered.

      “And God bless you, sir, and all here,” answered the young Irishman in a husky, broken voice.

      “Hush,” said the surgeon warningly, and his eyes sought those of the watching wife, with a meaning in them that needed no words. Quickly she passed her arm around Clinton, and let his head lie upon her shoulder. He sighed heavily and then lay still.

      The surgeon touched the kneeling figure of Convict Adair on the arm, and together they walked softly out of the cabin.

      “Come again in an hour, Adair,” said Dr. Williams; “you can help me best. We must bury him by daylight. Meanwhile you can get a little sleep.”

      No. 267 clasped his hands tightly together as he looked at the doctor, and his lips worked and twitched convulsively. Then a wild beseeching look overspread his face. “For God’s sake don’t ask me!” he burst out. “I implore you as man to man to have pity on me. I cannot be here at daylight!”

      “As you please,” answered Williams, with a surprised expression; and then as he went on deck he said to himself, “Some cursed, degrading Irish superstition, I suppose, about a death at sea.”

      Slowly the hours crept on. No noise disturbed the watcher by her dead save the low voices of the watch on deck and the unknown sounds that one hears at night alone. Prisoner Adair was sitting in the main cabin within near call of Mrs. Clinton, and, with head upon his knees, seemed to slumber. Suddenly the loud clamour of five bells as the hour was struck made him start to his feet and look quickly about him with nervous apprehension. From the dead officer’s state-room a narrow line of light from beneath the door sent an oblique ray aslant the cabin floor and crossed the convict’s stockinged feet.

      For a moment he hesitated; then tapped softly at the door. It opened, and the pale face of Marion Clinton met his as he stood before her cap in hand.

      “Have you come to take”—the words died away in her throat with a sob.

      “No,” he answered, “I have but come to ask you to let me say goodbye, and God keep and prosper you, madam. My time here is short, and you and your husband have made my bitter lot endurable.”

      She gave him her hand. He clasped it reverently in his for a moment, and his face flushed a dusky red. Then he knelt and kissed her child’s little hand.

      “Are you leaving the ship? Are we then in port or near it?” she asked.

      He looked steadfastly at her for a moment, and then, pushing the door to behind him, lowered his voice to a whisper.

      “Mrs. Clinton, your husband one day told me that he would aid me to regain my freedom. Will you do as much?”

      “Yes,” she answered, trembling; “I will. I shall tell the Governor how you–”

      He shook his head. “Not in that way, but now, now.”

      “How can I help you now?” she asked wonder-ingly.

      “Give me Mr. Clinton’s pistols. Before daylight four others and myself mean to escape from the ship. The guard are all too sick to prevent us even if we are discovered. There is a boat towing astern, lowered with the intention of sending it ashore to seek assistance. Water and provisions are in it. But we have no firearms, and if we land on the coast may meet with savages.”

      Without a word she put her husband’s pistols in his hands, and then gave him all the ammunition she could find.

      “Do not shed blood,” she began, when the convict clutched her arm. A sound as of some one moving came from the next cabin—the one occupied by Jacob Bolger—and a savage light came into Adair’s eyes as he stood and listened.

      “He would give the alarm in a moment if he knew,” he muttered.

      “Yes,” she answered; “he hates you, and I am terrified even to meet his glance.”

      But Mr. Jacob Bolger made no further noise; he had heard quite enough, and at that moment was lying back in his bunk with an exultant smile, waiting for Adair to leave the cabin.

      Then the convict, still crouching on the floor, held out his hand.

      “Will you touch my hand once more, Mrs. Clinton?” he said huskily.

      She gave it to him unhesitatingly.

      “Goodbye, Adair. I pray God all will go well with you.”

      He bent his face over it and whispered “Goodbye,” and then went up on deck.

      As No. 267 stumbled along the main deck he saw that all discipline was abandoned, and even the for’ard sentry, that for the past week had been stationed to guard the prisoners when on deck, had left his post.

      At the fore-hatch four shadowy forms approached him, and then the five men whispered together.

      “Good,” said Adair at last. Then they quickly separated.

      Six bells had struck when Jacob Bolger opened his cabin door, peered cautiously about, and then, stepping quickly to Mrs. Clinton’s door, turned the handle without knocking, and entered.

      “Why do you come here, Mr. Bolger?” said Marion Clinton, with a terrified look in her dark eyes. “Do you not know that my husband is dead and my child dying?” And, holding the infant in her arms, she barred a nearer approach.

      “I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Clinton; but I come as a friend, first to offer you my poor services in your great affliction, and secondly—but as a friend still—to warn you of the dangerous step you have taken in assisting a party of convicts to escape from the ship.”

      “For Heaven’s sake, Mr. Bolger, have some pity on me! My dear husband is dead, my child has but a few hours—perhaps minutes—to live. Do not add to my misery.”

      “I shall not betray you!” and he advanced a step nearer to her; “but it is my duty,” and his cunning eyes watched her shrinking figure keenly, “to prevent these men from escaping.” And then he turned as if to go.

      Her courage came back. “Mr. Bolger”—and she placed her hand on his cuff, shuddering as she did so—“you are not a rich man. Will you—can I—will a hundred guineas buy your silence? It is all I have. Forget that which you know. Let these wretched men escape. What harm can it do you?”

      His savage, brutal nature came out, and he laughed coarsely.

      “None, but—but you would like to see them get away, would you not?”

      “Yes,” she answered, looking at him with dulled eyes, “Adair has been very good to us.”

      “Well, look here; money cannot buy my silence, but you can. Now do you know what I mean?”

      “No,” she answered despairingly. “How should I? What is it you wish me to do?”

      “This”—and he bent his evil-eyed face close to hers—“promise to marry me three months from now.”

      She gave a gasping cry, and sank back upon her seat. He followed and stood over her, and then spoke quickly—

      “Ever since I first saw you I have loved you. You are a free woman now, and I shall have a good position at the settlement.”

      She made a gesture of horror, and his voice grew savage and threatening. “And unless you make me that promise I’ll give the alarm now, and Adair and his confederates shall hang together. Come, think, and decide quickly—their life or death rests in your hands.”

      For some moments she bent her gaze upon the pinched and sunken features of her dying child; then she raised her head, and a swift gleam of fire came into her eyes.

      “I will do as you wish. Now go.”

      Without a word Bolger turned and left the cabin.

      As he walked quickly through the main cabin he did not see the tall figure of Sergeant Matthews standing a few feet

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