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"Shotbolt! by—" cried Austin, as the captive was dragged forth. She reloaded. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. " "I'v not failed," returned Jack, angrily; "but we've done too much. But first, we’ve got to secure the convent. If only to say goodbye.
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