that her last moments were very near.  And yet she could scrutinise his features, form, and garments, so as to carry away in her mind a perfect picture of them.  Aaron Trow—for of course it was the escaped convict—was not a man of frightful, hideous aspect.  Had the world used him well, giving him when he was young ample wages and separating him from turbulent spirits, he also might have used the world well; and then women would have praised the brightness of his eye and the manly vigour of his brow.  But things had not gone well with him.  He had been separated from the wife he had loved, and the children who had been raised at his knee,—separated by his own violence; and now, as he had said of himself, he was a wolf rather than a man.  As he stood there satisfying the craving of his appetite, breaking up the large morsels of food, he was an object very sad to be seen.  Hunger had made him gaunt and yellow, he was squalid with the dirt of his hidden lair, and he had the look of a beast;—that look to which men fall when they live like the brutes of prey, as outcasts from their brethren.  But still there was that about his brow which might have redeemed him,—which might have turned her horror into pity, had he been willing that it should be so.

“And now give me some brandy,” he said.

There was brandy in the house,—in the sitting-room which was close at their hand, and the key of the little press which held it was in her pocket.  It was useless, she thought, to refuse him; and so she told him that there was a bottle partly full, but that she must go to the next room to fetch it him.

“We’ll go together, my darling,” he said.  “There’s nothing like good company.”  And he again put his hand upon her arm as they passed into the family sitting-room.

“I must take the light,” she said.  But he unhooked it himself, and carried it in his own hand.

Again she went to work without trembling.  She found the key of the side cupboard, and unlocking the door, handed him a bottle which might contain about half-a-pint of spirits.  “And is that all?” he said.

“There is a full bottle here,” she answered, handing him another; “but if you drink it, you will be drunk, and they will catch you.”

“By Heavens, yes; and you would be the first to help them; would you not?”

“Look here,” she answered.  “If you will go now, I will not say a word to any one of your coming, nor set them on your track to follow you.  There, take the full bottle with you.  If you will go, you shall be safe from me.”

“What, and go without money!”

“I have none to give you.  You may believe me when I say so.  I have not a dollar in the house.”

Before he spoke again he raised the half empty bottle to his mouth, and drank as long as there was a drop to drink.  “There,” said he, putting the bottle down, “I am better after that.  As to the other, you are right, and I will take it with me.  And now, young woman, about the money?”

“I tell you that I have not a dollar.”

“Look here,” said he, and he spoke now in a softer voice, as though he would be on friendly terms with her.  “Give me ten sovereigns, and I will go.  I know you have it, and with ten sovereigns it is possible that I may save my life.  You are good, and would not wish that a man should die so horrid a death.  I know you are good.  Come, give me the money.”  And he put his hands up, beseeching her, and looked into her face with imploring eyes.

“On the word of a Christian woman I have not got money to give you,” she replied.

“Nonsense!”  And as he spoke he took her by the arm and shook her.  He shook her violently so that he hurt her, and her breath for a moment was all but gone from her.  “I tell you you must make dollars before I leave you, or I will so handle you that it would have been better for you to coin your very blood.”

“May God help me at my need,” she said, “as I have not above a few penny pieces in the house.”

“And you expect me to believe that!  Look here!  I will shake the teeth out of your head, but I will have it from you.”  And he did shake her again, using both his hands and striking her against the wall.

“Would you—murder me?” she said, hardly able now to utter the words.

“Murder you, yes; why not?  I cannot be worse than I am, were I to murder you ten times over.  But with money I may possibly be better.”

“I have it not.”

“Then I will do worse than murder you.  I will make you such an object that all the world shall loathe to look on you.”  And so saying he took her by the arm and dragged her forth from the wall against which she had stood.

Then there came from her a shriek that was heard far down the shore of that silent sea, and away across to the solitary houses of those living on the other side,—a shriek, very sad, sharp, and prolonged,—which told plainly to those who heard it of woman’s woe when in her extremest peril.  That sound was spoken of in Bermuda for many a day after that, as something which had been terrible to hear.  But then, at that moment, as it came wailing through the dark, it sounded as though it were not human.  Of those who heard it, not one guessed from whence it came, nor was the hand of any brother put forward to help that woman at her need.

“Did you hear that?” said the young wife to her husband, from the far side of the arm of the sea.

“Hear it!  Oh Heaven, yes!  Whence did it come?”  The young wife could not say from whence it came, but clung close to her husband’s breast, comforting herself with the knowledge that that terrible sorrow was not hers.

But aid did come at last, or rather that which seemed as aid.  Long and terrible was the fight between that human beast of prey and the poor victim which had fallen into his talons.  Anastasia Bergen was a strong, well-built woman, and now that the time had come to her when a struggle was necessary, a struggle for life, for honour, for the happiness of him who was more to her than herself, she fought like a tigress attacked in her own lair.  At such a moment as this she also could become wild and savage as the beast of the forest.  When he pinioned her arms with one of his, as he pressed her down upon the floor, she caught the first joint of the forefinger of his other hand between her teeth till he yelled in agony, and another sound was heard across the silent water.  And then, when one hand was loosed in the struggle, she twisted it through his long hair, and dragged back his head till his eyes were nearly starting from their sockets.  Anastasia Bergen had hitherto been a sheer woman, all feminine in her nature.  But now the foam came to her mouth, and fire sprang from her eyes, and the muscles of her body worked as though she had been trained to deeds of violence.  Of violence, Aaron Trow had known much in his rough life, but never had he combated with harder antagonist than her whom he now held beneath his breast.

“By—I will put an end to you,” he exclaimed, in his wrath, as he struck her violently across the face with his elbow.  His hand was occupied, and he could not use it for a blow, but, nevertheless, the violence was so great that the blood gushed from her nostrils, while the back of her head was driven with violence against the floor.  But she did not lose her hold of him.  Her hand was still twined closely through his thick hair, and in every move he made she clung to him with all her might.  “Leave go my hair,” he shouted at her, but she still kept her hold, though he again dashed her head against the floor.

There was still light in the room, for when he first grasped her with both his hands, he had put the lamp down on a small table.  Now they were rolling on the floor together, and twice he had essayed to kneel on her that he might thus crush the breath from her body, and deprive her altogether of her strength; but she had been too