Would Bertie be there with his boat, a white-clad, supple figure, with his handsome olive face, and his dark eyes with their friendly laugh?  Surely it was the flash of his oars in the sunlight that dazzled her so!  She would swim to him through the crystal water, and he would stretch out his hands to her, and she would go up to him like a bird from the sea, and perch upon the stern.  He would scold her a little for swimming out so far, but what of that?  She liked being scolded by Bertie!

How warmly the sun shone down upon them!  And how she loved to watch the slim activity of him as he bent to his work!  She wished they did not move quite so fast, even though the speed was so delicious, for they were nearing the rocks.  Oh no, she was not afraid!  Who could be afraid with Bertie in the boat?  But when they reached the rocks, it would be the end of the voyage, and she did not want it to end.

Ah! now she could catch the sparkle of the sand, and there away in the distance a powdery whirl which was all she could see of Cinders.  He was evidently digging for dear life, and again Chris laughed.

And now she stood with her back to the glittering sea, and her face to the mysterious granite of the ages.  Where had he gone—­her preux chevalier?  Was he hidden in the dark recesses of the Magic Cave?  She would go in search of him.  He would not hide long from her, for she possessed the secret of the spell that would draw him forth.

But the rocks were slippery under her feet, and more than once she stumbled.  She found herself confronted by obstacles such as had never before obstructed her path.  A little tremor of distress went through her.  Why had she quitted that sunny sea?  Why had she ever suffered herself to be beguiled into the boat?

It became increasingly difficult, wellnigh impossible, to go forward.  She turned aside.  Ah! there was Bertie, after all, out on the sand, waiting for her.  He held a naked sword in his hand.  Evidently he was drawing pictures.  She knew what they would be before she reached him:  St. George and the Dragon, that “beast enormous with eyes of fire”; the Sphinx, and Cleopatra’s Needle.  She saw them all; and soon the great tide would race up with a mighty roaring and wash them all away.  Was it not the destiny of all things—­save one?

Stay!  Was it the sand on which he was expending his skill thus?  Why, then, did his sword move so swiftly, like lightning-flashes, where the sun caught it?  Ah, now she saw more clearly.  It was a duel.  He was fighting with every inch of him, steadfast, unflinching, in her cause.  How splendidly he controlled himself!  The clear grace of his every movement held her spellbound.

For a while she watched him, not heeding his adversary, watched the glint of the crossed swords, the pass, the thrust, and the return.  And then, by some mysterious influence, her eyes were drawn upward to the face of his opponent, and it was as if one of those flashing blades had found her heart.  For Bertrand de Montville was fighting the grey-eyed, level-browed Englishman who was her husband!