Carrach next handed him a knife, from which the Laird shrank with as much dread as if it had been raised to strike him.

"What's that for ?" he gasped, with chattering teeth.

And Jeanie, still struggling, felt a cold chill pass over her as if her last hour had come.

“What did you'll thocht it was for ?" demanded the Highlander savagely. "Go and cut the rope from the anchor yonder-that's what it's for."

"What are ye gaun to do ?"

"Get the rope and you'll saw."

“I'll have no more violence," shrieked the Laird vehemently. "It's a' your fault that I'm in sorrow and trembling this night —a mad fool I was to think that your thick stupid head could ever hae done onything right. But I'll hae nae mair violence -in the presence o' a witness I protest against it."

The selfish alarm of the wretch, which even in that place endeavoured to shift all blame from his own shoulders, produced the singular effect on the stolid skipper of cooling whatever passion he had shown.

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"Very goot," he said, in his usual slow way and husky voice; very goot, we'll took aff the clout that stuffed her mouth, and we'll let her go safe home. Oich, aye, to be sure. She can do no hurt to me, for I'll be away; but you'll see all your friends the pailies, and the provosts, and the fiscals, and the sheriff-offishers all wanting to shake hands with you at Clashgirn fine and early in the morning. Oich, yes, let her go, it's all the same one thing to me, and she'll foucht till I'll be tired of her-pe-tam."

"I'll get the rope."

The Laird took the knife, and with nervous haste hirpled to the boat and cut the rope close to the rings. Carrach roughly tied her hands and feet; then lifted her into the stern of the boat with about as much care as he might have used had she been a keg of whisky. His respect could not go farther than that.

"She'll do there," he muttered, seating himself on the edge

of the boat; "and now, Laird, we'll shust finish our business. Where's your paper, and I'll put my mark, and she'll be witness to't."

"Her? What are ye gaun to do with her ?" "Took her away with me, you said."

"I said? I never said anything about it-I'll hae nae hand in't."

'Verry goot, we'll let her go as soon as you gie me the siller.”

"I'll gie ye the siller,"--(quickly)—“and ye'll better do as ye think best wi' her."

Aye, I'll thocht that. I was wanting a wife this lang while, and she'll do."

The Laird produced the paper from his pocket which he had previously asked Carrach to put his mark to without a witness, but which he had on this occasion desired to have duly witnessed, with the idea that the formality would impress the Highlander the more deeply with its importance, and so terrify him from any attempt to brave its power. He had also brought with him a pen, a small ink-bottle, and a book to serve as desk.

He uncovered his lantern; Carrach made his mark with the stolid indifference of his character. The Laird asked Jeanie if she would sign, and by a movement of her head she eagerly consented: first, with the idea that her hands loosened that would be one step gained toward freedom, and second, with the hope that, whatever was about to happen to her now, she might be able to get back and obtain possession of that document, which would be the strongest proof she could adduce of the truth of her narrative of the strange events of this night.

But Carrach only released her right hand, and laying the paper on the seat before her, he rested his hands on her shoulders ready to frustrate any movement she might make.

She signed, he secured her hand again, and held the paper up. The Laird placed a small canvas bag in the boat, and the skipper gave him the receipt.

"They'll be all right," he said, touching the bag with his foot, and his eyes glistened at the clink of it.

"Aye, a hundred gowden pieces "-(mournfully).

"If they're no, I'll come back for the rest-pe-tam."

"If ye ever come within sicht o' me again," cried the Laird, with all the petty venom of his nature finding vent, "I'll gie ye ower to the hangman as sure as I'm living this minute. Whether it harms mysel' or no, I swear to ye I'll do’t.”

Carrach laughed hoarsely, pushed off the boat, ran into the water up to the knees after it, and then jumped in, taking the oars and pulling out from the shore with long vigorous strokes.

He did not utter a word to the helpless woman, who lay at the stern, or show by any sign that he was conscious of her presence.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

ON THE SEA.

"The white waves heaving high, my lads,

The good ship tight and free

The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.”—Allan Cunningham.

ONE feels the loss of a nearly won victory more bitterly than a hundred defeats in which the tide has been contrary from the start. Jeanie had been so near success this night, had been so near the complete solution of the mystery which surrounded James Falcon's death, that the disappointment of her failure scourged her with sharper pangs than even the dread of what was to become of her could do.

True she had heard no confession, no reference to the event which might not have been easily explained as referring to something else. But she had heard and seen enough to prove that the Laird and Carrach were at the bottom of it all. The former had threatened his companion with the gallows, and he had warned him that Mr. Carnegie was inquiring after him. For what other reason could he have done this than one she assigned for it-their complicity in the crime?

document which the Laird had caused the skipper to sign, that he might hold it as a threat over him, she felt satisfied contained all the information requisite to release her husband.

And yet here she was, out at sea, a helpless prisoner in the hands of the man whose life was at stake. Here she was unable to stir hand or foot, with the waters rapidly deepening between her and any chance of rescue. She had been too much accustomed to the sea from her babyhood up to be disturbed by it now, although the little boat was tossed by the waves with perilous violence.

But what was this dull brute at whose mercy she was placed going to do with her? She had heard him say that he was to take her with him. Did he mean that, or was he only carrying her out to sea that it might close over another crime? He could trust the deep ocean to keep his secret. She shuddered at the thought, and yet oddly as it appeared to herself at the time, she did not feel so much afraid as she had done at first when struggling with him on land. The utter desperation of her position seemed to endue her with calmness and fortitude which surprised herself.

He did not speak; she did not move; and she caught herself counting the dips of the oars with a dull mechanical fidelity, as if she were to calculate by the number of strokes the distance which was being placed between her and safety and all that was most precious to her.

A black mass rose above the water, at first like a cloud, but soon assuming the proportions of a schooner.

The Highlander suddenly ceased rowing, shipped his oars, and bent towards her. She shrank within herself with constrained breath as he touched her. But the fear, which affected her was dispelled immediately. Instead of heaving her out of the boat as she had thought he purposed doing, he unfastened her hands, and removed the gag from her

mouth.

"You'll no care to jump into the water," he said; “and if you'll do I'll no care. So you can hae the use o' your arms and feet now."

"He took the oars again and pulled to the side of the schooner. He hallooed to those on board, and a man looked over the bulwark.

"Wha's that?" said the man, as if somebody had knocked at the door.

"Shust me and my guidwife, Donald," responded the skipper; "gie's a hand."

Donald assisted Carrach to convey Jeanie on deck by means of a rope-ladder. She did not make any objection or speak a word of any kind. She obeyed the directions given her quietly and silently. Words could not help her now; cries and lamentations would be worse than useless. All she could do was to submit, and observe every movement of those about for chance of escape.

any

She noted particularly, and it was the first gleam of hope she obtained, that the small boat was not hauled up: it was permitted to float astern.

Carrach asked her to descend to the cabin, where she could go to sleep if she liked. She spoke for the first time since they had left shore, and asked him to let her remain on deck. He seemed to be peculiarly willing to humour her, and consented: "it was all the same one thing to him-would she hae a dram?"

"No."

"Very goot, he would hae one himself, and his lads would hae one, and they would all drink her goot health and a pleasant voyage.

He rolled down to his cabin, and before he returned Donald's comrade appeared from the forecastle, where he had been sleeping. Of these two men Jeanie was unable to form any opinion, as there was not light enough for her to see their faces distinctly, and to read there what hope she might have of enlisting their sympathies on her behalf. So far they were nothing more than two dark figures lounging about the deck in the dim light utterly indifferent to her presence, or how she had come to be there.

The skipper returned with a bottle, gave each of his men a dram, and took a double one himself.