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"Curiosity, I suppose," returned Jack, carelessly. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. While this was passing, Jonathan opened one of the upper windows, and fired several shots upon the assailants. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. He waved a hand toward the sea. On that night,—that fatal night,—Winifred crushed all the hopes that were rising in my heart. Eluding the blow, Jack plucked his sword from the scabbard, and a desperate conflict began.
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