Truly he has no reason to regret that heart affection, that love for humanity which sent him out to snatch the dusky child of Malta from the fangs of the beast.

Now they have reached a door that is heavily barred, proving that their course has been different from the one by means of which they gained the dungeon.

The woman lays down her lantern and takes away the bars.  Then she places her hand on John’s arm.

“You saved my child, Chicago; I save you.”

She smiles, this dusky daughter of Malta, as if greatly pleased at being able to frame her thoughts in English—­smiles and nods at the young doctor.

“But you—­she may punish you,” he says, and she understands, shaking her head.

“She no dare; I am of Malta; also, I shall see her, this proud mistress, no more,” which doubtless means that she intends taking French leave as soon as the Americans have gone.

John takes her hand and presses it to his lips; a dusky hand it is, but no cavalier of old ever kissed the slender member of a lady love with more reverence than he shows.

“Go, it is danger to stay,” she says, with something of a look of alarm on her face, as from the interior of the dwelling comes some sort of clamor which may after all only turn out to be the barking of a dog confined in the court where the fountain plays, but which at any rate arouses her fears.

They are only too glad to do so; after being confined in that murky dungeon the outside air seems peculiarly sweet.

It must be very late, and in this quarter, at least, the noises of the earlier night have passed away.

The only sounds that come plainly to their ears are the booming of the heavy tide on the rocks, and the sweep of the night wind through the cypress trees.

When they turn again after making an effort to locate themselves, the door in the wall is closed, and the Maltese woman is gone.

There is no cause for them to linger, and they move away.

John Craig has nothing to say.  The disappointment has been keen, and he does not yet see a ray of light ahead.

Hope had such a grasp upon his soul, when he started from the hotel, that the fall has been more disastrous.

Not so Philander Sharpe.

An evil fortune has kept him pretty quiet for quite a little while now, and he begins to make up for it in part, chirping away at a merry rate as they push their way along the street.

At first Doctor Chicago pays little heed to what he says, but presently certain words catch his ear and tell him that the professor is not merely speaking for oratorical effect or to hear himself talk.

“What’s that you say, sir?” he asks.

Cheerfully Philander goes back to repeat.

“I was saying that I experienced queer sensations when I came to.  They had carried you away to some more luxurious apartment, but I was left where I went to sleep—­anything was good enough for Philander Sharpe.