“Then it is no affair of ours, even if we could reach it.  But the flame yonder will lead us to my father.”

So we took the white glimmering high-road again and stepped out briskly, refreshed by sleep and the cool night air that went with us, blowing softly across the ridges on our right.  We found a track that skirted the village of Pino, leading us wide among orchards of citron and olive, and had scarcely regained the road before the guns to the south ceased firing.  Also the red glow, though it still suffused the north, began to fade as we neared it and climbed the last of steep hills that run out to the extremity of the cape.  There, upon the summit, we came to a stand and caught our breath.

The sea lay at our feet, and down across its black floor to the base of the cliff on which we stood there ran a broad ribbon of light.  It shone from a rock less than half a league distant:  and on that rock stood a castle which was a furnace—­its walls black as the bars of a grate, its windows aglow with contained fire.  For the moment it seemed that this fire filled the whole pile of masonry:  but presently, while we stood and stared, a sudden flame, shooting high from the walls, lit up the front of a tall tower above them, with a line of battlements at its base and on the battlements a range of roofs yet intact.  As though a slide had been opened and as rapidly shut again, this vision of tower, roofs, battlements, gleamed for a second and vanished as the flame sank and a cloud of smoke and sparks rolled up in its place and drifted heavily to leeward.

With a light touch on the Princess’s arm I bade her follow me, and we raced together down the slope.  At the foot of it we plunged into a grove of olives and through it, as through a screen, into the street of a little marina—­two dozen fisher-huts, huddled close above the foreshore, and tenantless; for their inhabitants were gathered all on the beach and staring at the blaze.

I have said that the folk at Cape Corso are a race apart:  and surely there never was a stranger crowd than that in which, two minutes later, we found ourselves mingling unchallenged.  They accepted us, may be, as a minor miracle of the night.  They gazed at us curiously there in the light of the conflagration, and from us away to the burning island, and talked together in whispers, in a patois of which I caught but one word in three.  They asked us no questions.  Their voices filled the beach with a kind of subdued murmuring, all alike gentle and patiently explanatory.

“It is the island of Giraglia,” said one to me.  “Yes, yes; this will be the work of the patriots—­a brave feat too, there’s no denying.”

I pointed to a line of fishing-boats moored in the shoal water a short furlong off the shore.

“If you own one,” said I, “give me leave to hire her from you, and name your price.”

“Perche, perche?”

“I wish to sail her to the island.”