But the clearly definite thing was the ultimate escape. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Wood, meantime, had not remained idle. Lucy aimed the firearm at Rhea’s chest. Wood's anxiety respecting the fugitive was speedily relieved by hearing another waterman busy himself in preparation for starting; and, shortly after, the dip of a second pair of oars sounded upon the river. And she found herself able to do nothing of the sort. “You certainly got him in the bag.
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