"That is no owl's cry," he whispered. " It
is a human voice. I would stake my life on
it."

"No, no."

"I tell you, yes. It is the signal."

The Earl would not believe it; but Saxon
imitated the note, and it was echoed immediately.

"There," said he, " I told you so."

"Nonsense; all owls will do that. I have
made them answer me hundreds of times."

But Saxon pointed eagerly forward.

"Look!" he said; " look, close under that
wall yonder. Don't you see something moving?"

The Earl stared into the darkness as if he
would pierce through it.

"I think I do," he replied; "a something—
a shadow!"

"Shall we not show ourselves?"

"Suppose it is a sentry! Try the cry
again."

Saxon tried the cry again, and again it was
promptly echoed. He immediately roused the
sleeping seaman, and stepped out cautiously
beyond the shelter of the reeds.

As he did so, the shadow under the wall
became stationary.

Then he listened, advanced a few paces,
treading so lightly and swiftly that the sand
scarcely grated under his feet; and, having
traversed about half the intermediate distance,
came to a halt.

He had no sooner halted, than the shadow
was seen to move again, and steal a few yards
nearer.

And now Saxon, watching the approaching
form with eyes trained to darkness and distance,
was struck with a sudden conviction that it was
not Colonna. As this doubt flashed through
his mind, the shadow stopped again, and a low,
distinct, penetrating whisper came to him on the
air:

"Chi è?"

To which Saxon, quick as thought, replied:

"Montecuculi."

Instantly the shadow lifted its head, cried
aloud, " Chiù! chiù! chiù!" three times in
succession, and, leaving the gloom of the wall,
came running up to Saxon where he stood. It
was not Colonna, but a slight, active boy, clad
in some kind of loose blouse.

"All's well," he said, in Italian. " Where is
your boat?"

"Close at hand."

"Is all ready?"

"All."

"Quick, then! He will be here instantly."

They ran to the boat. The lad jumped in,
the sailor grasped his oars, Castletowers kept
watch, and Saxon stood ready to shove off.

Then followed a moment of anxious suspense.

Suddenly the sharp, stinging report of a rifle
rang through the silence. The boy uttered a
half-suppressed cry, and made as if he would
fling himself from the boat; but Saxon, with
rough kindness, thrust him back.

"You young fool!" said he, authoritatively,
"sit still."

At the same moment they beheld the gleam
of a distant torch, heard a rush of rapid footfalls
on the beach, and saw a man running down
wildly towards the sea.

Saxon darted out to meet him.

"Courage!" he cried. " This way."

But the fugitive, instead of following,
staggered and stood still.

"I cannot," he gasped. "I am exhausted.
Save yourselves."

A tossing fire of torches was now visible not
a couple of hundred yards away in the direction
of Cumæ, and more than one bullet came whistling
over the heads of those on the beach.

In the mean while, Saxon had taken Colonna
up bodily in his arms, and strode with him to
the boat, like a young giant.

As he did this, a yell of discovery broke from
the lips of the pursuers. On they came, firing
and shouting tumultuously; but only in time
to see the boat shoved off, and to find a broad
gap of salt water between themselves and their
prey.

"Viva Garibaldi!" shouted Saxon, firing his
revolver triumphantly in their faces.

But the lad in the blouse snatched it from his
hand.

"Give me the pistol," he said, " and help
with the oars. How can we tell that they have
no boat at hand?"

The boy now spoke in English, but Saxon
scarcely noticed that in the overwhelming
excitement of the moment. The voice, however,
sounded strangely familiar, and had a ring of
authority in it that commanded obedience. Saxon
relinquished the weapon instantly, and flung
himself upon his oars. The boy, heedless of the
bullets that came pattering into the water all
about their wake, leaned over the gunwale and
discharged the whole round of cartridges. The
soldiers on the beach, looking gaunt and
shadowy by the waving torchlight, fired a parting
volley. In the mean while, the boat bounded
forward under the double impulse, and in a few
more seconds they were, if not beyond range,
at all events beyond aim in the darkness.

CHAPTER LXXVII. A WET SHEET AND
A FLOWING SAIL.

PULLING swiftly and strongly, the rowers
threw a fierce energy into their work that soon
left the reedy shore far enough behind. Each
moment the glare of the torchlight grew fainter
on the shore. Each moment the hull of the
Albula seemed to become bigger and blacker.
In the mean while, no one spoke. The boy,
having fired out all Saxon's cartridges, crept to
Colonna's side, and there crouched silently.
The Italian had sunk exhausted in the bottom
of the boat, and lay with his head and shoulders
leaning up against the side; Castletowers
steered, and the two others bent and rose upon
their oars with the precision of automatons.

Presently they shot alongside the yacht, and
were hailed by the familiar voice of Saxon's