if the hounds are after it.' No — nor can a man escape, if the packs of evil and destruction attend his comings and his goings.

"On the afternoon of that day we reached Madeira, and I bade farewell to Mr. Rofni and his wife. And though they were busy with the island folk, who assailed them, wanting to sell them the embroidered stuffs they carried, and flowers, and slippers, and boxes made of palm wood, and models of ox-drawn carts, and the costumes of the islanders — they waved to me as I left the ship in a boat for the shore. And I noticed once more the strange emptiness of expression on their two faces — a thing which, if you looked closely into it, revealed to you a terror beyond terror. Then I thought they gazed at the land with the look of one yearning and longing — but I was too far off to see clearly... Be that as it may, they were now safe, for the rest of the voyage, especially at that time of year, is calm in the hot zone, where the deep blue gardens glitter beneath the waters, and the flying fish leap above them as sparrows hop over the garden ground.

"Two weeks passed before I heard what had happened, and

read in a newspaper: 'Hurricane in the South Atlantic. Tidal waves sweep over the coastal towns. British steamer sinks near Rik. All passengers drowned.' At once I remembered Mrs. Rofni... So the thing was over now... She belonged to the sea, in some fashion... and the sea was bound to take her back into its embrace. She had always known it, though her mind could not always believe it. Whatever else it might be, the thing was finished, whatever its meaning — a long chase was ended, whose beginning no man could discover; or perhaps it was only the middle act of a drama spanning several centuries, or several ages...

"I asked myself: what, I wonder, did that beautiful face look like at the end, and how calm and matter-of-fact did she keep her voice as she spoke to her hus-band for the last time, knowing what fate held in store for her... But reality often differs from prophecy, and so it happened this time... For I read the paper again, and in the stop-press news I read: 'One passenger rescued. A strange coincidence... Mrs. Rofni, who was rescued yesterday afternoon in a state of exhaustion, proves to be one of the survivors

of the Titanic, whose twin brother went down with that ship. It is feared that Mr. Rofni, well known in the sporting world, and all the other passengers and the crew, have been drowned.' ... So the sea had not taken her back yet, and the fox had escaped once more — poor woman! The last act had not yet been played.

"... Perhaps you think me superstitious for feeling as I feel now? But life seems easier to understand when one believes in superstitions... At any rate, all that happened thirteen years ago... and — God preserve us — she is aboard this very ship, traveling to Ceylon to see her son. I spoke to her this morning; it is as though she had not aged a single day. But what is one to do: obey the belief in superstition, or defy it...? I am too much of a coward to commit the folly of leaving this ship at Suez."

He ceased speaking, and sank into silence and thought — but I struggled down into the depths of the ship, clutching at everything my hand fell upon so as not to lose my balance, and there I sent off a telegram.