Over the ledge she goes, leaping from rock to rock, climbing, wading, slipping, falling, rising again, cut and bruised—heeding not, struggling, scrambling on.
Quick, Kit, quick—for the love of heaven!
The pale horse has won the race. The ghastly phantom is at Grale's side. It whispers in his ear, "George calls—George calls. Go to him. Go to your friend, where is rest and peace!" A mocking devil looks up at him out of the shimmering wave—it wears George Gladwin's face. It beckons him—it is George's familiar gesture. He hears his voice—it is soft and low, it entreats. "Come, John,—come, come!"
Quick, Kit—for love's sake, quick!
He leaps up on his feet.
"I'm coming, George," he cries—"coming, coming!"
He lays off his coat — the instinct of orderly habit with him still in his madness. He leans over again—looks down.
"I'm coming, George," he cries, again—"coming, coming!"
He straightens up for the plunge. One moment more!
Two light feet leap into the boat. Two arms go round his neck.
"Father, father," she cries, "come home, come home!"
He turns his face upon her—a strange face, haggard and wild. He struggles, makes as though he would strike her. She shudders, but does not shrink. She locks her hands together, clings to him fiercely. He looks into the loved face keenly. The wildness dies out of his eyes. The power of madness goes from him. He sinks down, she clinging to him.
"I've paid the mortgage, father." She shows him the glittering coins. "See, father—gold, gold!"
He looks at her steadfastly—looks and listens. Is it the clink of the gold he hears? its yellow gleam that he sees? No. Not the red gold. He hears a loved voice, unspeakably sweet in his ears. He sees a thin, white face that is dearer to him than life. The voice and the face of true love!
He knows her now. A peaceful look comes into his eyes, a smile plays feebly upon his lips. His head sinks back in her arms, rests on the true, tried heart—the heart that has been more to him than brother, more than sweetheart, more than wife!
"God bless ye. Kit," he murmurs. "I'm glad ye've come home."
Saved! Saved!
Murmur it, winds of summer night, waft it to sea and shore! Tide ripples tinkle it to rock and wet sea sands! Green leaves, rustle and tell the tale! Green grass, bend and whisper it to sweet wild flowers! Chime it, sweet sheep-bells, in the pasture fields! Whippoorwill, hush your mournful call, warble a gladder song!
Saved! Saved!
