Brettison’s progress was slow, but he refused to sit down and rest.

“We must get there,” he said; “we must get there.”

Stratton shuddered slightly, and for the moment felt that he ought to press on; but he knew that his words would have ten times the force with the admiral backed up by Brettison’s presence, so he restrained himself and helped his companion along till they came in sight of the rocks, a good-sized boat keeping pace with them a couple of hundred yards out, its owners having hard work to stem the current which ran along the shore.

“Is it much farther?” said Brettison at last. “I am weaker than I thought.”

“Seventy or eighty yards; just beyond those rocks,” cried Stratton.

“Hah, then I am strong enough,” cried Brettison, with a sigh of relief; and after a few moments’ pause he stepped out again; they passed the rocks, and the doubt which had existed in Stratton’s mind as to whether the party would still be where he left them was set at rest. But he started as he saw that they were gathered together as if there were some cause of excitement.

“Come along,” he whispered quickly.

They were hurrying along, when there was a joyful cry, and the sturdy Breton woman chosen for Dale’s attendant cried out:

“Ah, monsieur; quick! quick! Here—help!”

Stratton quitted Brettison’s side and rushed forward, to see, as the group opened, a sight that made his blood boil with rage.

Dale was holding Myra’s wrist with his left hand and struggling violently with the admiral and Guest, who were afraid to exert their strength for fear of injuring Myra, who was supported by Margot with one arm, while with her strong fingers she grasped her patient’s wrist in turn.

“Quick, monsieur!” cried Margot; “it is a fit. He is half-mad.”

Forgetting everything but the fact that Myra was in this scoundrel’s grasp, Stratton sprang at him, catching him by the throat to try and make him quit his hold.

“Mr Stratton!” cried Sir Mark in angry amazement.

The name acted like magic. Dale shook himself free of the admiral and Margot, loosening Myra’s wrist in the act, and with an angry snarl, like that of some wild beast, fixed his hands on Stratton’s throat.

In spite of his last meeting Guest flew to his friend’s assistance, and Margot bravely flung her arms about her patient’s waist; but in spite of all the man’s strength for the moment was gigantic, and, paying no heed to the others, he sought to vent his rage upon Stratton, who felt himself growing weaker and weaker in his enemy’s grasp.

Twice over as they swayed here and there he caught sight of Myra’s face convulsed with horror while she clung to her cousin, and her look unnerved him so that it would have gone hard with him but for the arrival of a party of four men who had landed from the boat that had kept pace with them along the shore.

One of these was the fisherman, the two others were a couple of gendarmes and another fisher, and the two officers threw themselves into the fray, with the result that the next minute Dale was firmly secured and held.

“This is the man, then,” panted one of the officers.

“Yes,” said the fisherman from the cottage. “I say he tried to strangle this gentleman in the night at my place. Look at his throat.”

“It is quite true,” said Brettison.

“And you told us, monsieur,” cried the fisherman reproachfully, “that your friend was imbecile, and that we need not fear.”

“Yes,” said Brettison sadly. “I was wrong, but I have been punished for my sin. Malcolm Stratton,” he continued, turning to his friend, who stood there with his breast heaving still, and gazing wildly at Myra, who met his eyes with a piteous look, mingled of gratitude, sorrow, and despair, “I call upon you for the sake of all here to denounce this man to the officers.”

“I cannot,” said Stratton, with a quick look from Myra to Sir Mark and back. “That task shall never be mine.”

“Will monsieur say those words in French?” said the officer who had spoken before, and who was busy brushing the sand from his uniform. “I understand English a little, but I cannot trust myself at a time like this.”

“Forgive me, then, Sir Mark,” said Brettison firmly, and speaking now in excellent French, “and you, too, my child,” he said, taking and kissing Myra’s hand. “I have tried for your sake and that of the man I love as a son to spare you pain, but the time has come when this must end. Officers, this man, an imbecile save at rare intervals, when he has these violent homicidal fits, is James Barron, or Dale, a convict escaped from one of the English pris—”

Myra uttered a wild cry and hid her face ............