I shook them gently, but the gate was locked.  I strained my ears for any sound inside, strained them so that I heard the breaking of the waves on the rock below the window at the other end of the rock chamber.

Then I cried softly, “Carette!”—­and listened—­and thought I heard a movement.

“Carette!” I cried again.

And out of that blessed darkness, and the doubt and the bewilderment, came the sweetest voice in all the world, in a scared whisper, as one doubtful of her own senses—­

“Who is it?  Who calls?”

“It is I, Carette—­Phil Carre;” and in a moment she was against the bars, and my hands touched her and hers touched me.

“Phil!” she cried, in vast amazement, and clung tight to my hands to make sure.  “Is it possible?  Oh, my dear, is it truly, truly you?  I knew your voice, but—­I thought I dreamed, and then I thought it the voice of the dead.  You are not dead, Phil?” with a doubtful catch in her breath, as though a doubt had caught her suddenly by the throat.

“But no!  I am not dead, my dear one;” and I drew the dear little hands through the bars and covered them with hot kisses.

“But how come you here, Phil?  What brings you here?”

“You yourself, Carette.  What else?”

“Bon Dieu, but it is good to hear you again, Phil!  Can you get me out?  They carried me off this morning—­”

“I know.  I reached Sercq this morning, and Krok brought us the word an hour later.  I have been trying ever since to find where you were.  I knew this place, for I was prisoner here myself for many weeks.”

“You, Phil?”

“Truly yes.  This Torode is a murderer and worse.  He fights under both flags.  He is Main Rouge in France and Torode of Herm.  He slaughtered John Ozanne and all our crew before my eyes, and why my life was spared I know not.”

“If he sees you he will kill you.”

“Or I kill him.”

“Phil, he will kill you.  Oh, go!—­go quick and rouse the Sercq men and Peter Port.  You need not fear for me.  I will never wed with young Torode—­not if they kill me for it—­”

And my heart was glad in spite of its heaviness and perplexity.

“When will they come to you again, Carette?  And who is it comes?”

“A woman—­madame, I suppose.  She brought me my supper.  I think they are going away.”

“Yes, they are going.  They are going because I have come back alive, and Torode knows the game is up if I get to Peter Port.”

And that started her off again on that string, but I understood the tune of it quite well.

“That is it,” she urged.  “Get across to Peter Port, Phil, and rouse them there, and stop their going.”  But she only said it to get me away out of danger, and I knew it.

“Peter Port can wait the news, and Torode can wait his dues.  I am not going till I take you with me, Carette.”

“They will kill you!” she cried, and let go my hands to wring her own.