body bowed, she seemed to be at one and the same time clinging desperately to the rock and forcing herself as far back as she could from the bareheaded man who stood a couple of paces away, his arms crossed upon a breast-high stone between them, and his chin upon them as he gazed with a grim satisfaction at the terror-convulsed face before him.
Onslow grasped the position, and he saw, too, something glitter—it was the point of a knife which appeared between the rock and the man's elbow.
"And I can do no more," groaned Onslow to himself.
At that moment he made an effort to try and climb down, and a terrible spasm at his breast made him sink down again, panting.
But his movement had caught Lucille's eye, and she glanced up wildly and uttered a shriek.
"Frank! Frank!" she cried; "help, help, he is mad."
The man looked up and uttered a loud laugh, as he said calmly, in good English:
"No, monsieur, I am not mad. I am this woman's fate."
"No, no," shrieked Lucille, about whose feet the waves were now surging, but she dared not stir lest the man should spring upon her with that knife. "Frank, for God's sake, help! He will kill me."
