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The Frenchman strolled leisurely across the glade while Sandoff
darted into the bushes and made his way back to Shamarin and
Vera with his burden of joyful news.
Through the remainder of that short afternoon the fugitives lay
concealed among the rocks on the summit of the ridge, and when
darkness came they crept cautiously down to the edge of the bay.
Less than a mile from shore lay the steam yacht Grenelle, easily
distinguished by the red light that swung from its bow.
“If your friend fails to keep his word, we are lost,” said Shamarin.
“He may hesitate to assume such a risk——”
“He won’t hesitate and he won’t fail,” interrupted Sandoff with
decision. “There! What is that now?”
“A boat!” cried Vera joyously, and so indeed it was. It lay upon the
beach, and as the fugitives drew near a man advanced to meet them
—a middle aged bearded sailor, wearing the blue and white uniform
of the Grenelle. He bowed politely to Sandoff and said, “The boat is
waiting, monsieur. I fear we shall have a rough passage, for the surf
is heavy and the wind is rising.”
“Then the sooner we start the better,” said Sandoff, answering the
sailor in his own tongue.
The boat was small, and without difficulty it was dragged down to
the edge of the surf with Vera seated in the stern. The three men
pushed the craft out through the surf. Then they sprang in, and
Sandoff and the sailor fell to the oars, Vera and her brother
meanwhile bailing out the water that had been flung over the sides.
“Pull with all your strength, my friend,” said Sandoff. “It will be no
easy matter to gain the yacht.”
The wind was blowing toward the shore. Each moment it seemed
to increase in violence, and the sea to grow more turbulent. After a
period of steady rowing Sandoff noted with alarm that the boat was
being carried in the direction of the Russian corvette. Again and
again it was headed for the crimson wake of the lantern, and each
time the waves buffeted it persistently out of its course. Shamarin
relieved Sandoff at the oar, but with no better result. The situation
was becoming alarming. The sky was overcast with dark, murky
clouds, and the waves tossed the frail craft about at will.
Suddenly a ruddy blaze was seen on the beach. Then a rocket
with a luminous blue wake whizzed high in the air, and before the
fugitives could recover from their surprise a similar signal was sent
up from the deck of the corvette.
“We have been tracked to the shore,” cried Sandoff. “The
Cossacks must have come up from Vladivostok, and now they are
signaling to the corvette either to be on the lookout or to send a boat
in.”
“Most likely the latter,” said Shamarin. “Look! Lights are moving on
deck, and I can hear the rattling of chains.”
The possibility of recapture when safety was so near at hand
dismayed the fugitives. The boat was in a dangerous position, being
directly between the corvette and the shore.
“We may be saved yet,” cried Sandoff hoarsely. “Pull straight for
the yacht—pull as you never pulled in your lives. It is our last
chance.”
The men tugged desperately at the oars, and to such purpose that
the boat made visible headway toward the Grenelle. A shout for help
might have brought another boat to the rescue, but as it could have
been heard with equal distinctness on board the corvette this
expedient was out of the question.
Another mishap was close at hand. As the sailor pulled
desperately at his oar, it split with a sharp crack. In the momentary
confusion that followed, the boat swung broadside to the waves, and
a fierce blast of wind coming up at that instant, over it went in the
twinkling of an eye.
Sandoff, being on the leeward side, shot out and downward, going
clear under the icy water and coming to the surface a few seconds
later, to find the capsized boat half a dozen feet from him. To the bow
clung Shamarin, submerged to the breast, while the sailor had
managed to crawl upon the stern. Vera was not to be seen, and as
Sandoff made this terrible discovery his heart seemed to stand still
and his chilled limbs to lose their power.
“Victor! Victor! Help me!”
His name was called in feeble accents, and he saw a head and an
arm floating in the waves between him and the boat.
All else was instantly forgotten. With three powerful strokes he
reached the spot, and placed one arm tightly about the girl’s waist,
while with the other he beat the water furiously.
“I will save you, I will save you, Vera—my darling!” he whispered
hoarsely. The words came unbidden from his very soul. This moment
of common peril had wrung from his lips the confession of a passion
that he had cherished in secret for months.
The wind forced the boat down toward him, and throwing up his
arm he caught the keel and clung there, pressing his precious
burden close to his side. Slowly the space between the yacht and
the boat widened. They were drifting nearer and nearer to the long,
black hull of the Russian corvette.
“Better to die now than go back to the mines—back to torture and
a living death,” whispered Shamarin across the boat. “Good by,
Sandoff. I can’t hold on much longer.”
Sandoff could not reply. His own strength was failing, and a deadly
numbness was stealing his senses away. The heroic sailor remained
mute, faithful to his trust, though a single cry would have brought
rescuers to the spot.
Suddenly the quick, sharp rattle of oars was heard. The sound
came nearer and nearer, and finally a dim object passed close to the
drifting boat. It was the gig from the corvette, speeding toward the
shore.
As the dreaded object disappeared in the gloom, Sandoff still held
to the keel, though his arm seemed to be tearing from the socket.
With the other arm he fiercely drew Vera to his breast until her cheek
was almost touching his.
“I love you, I love you!” he cried passionately. “I tell you now, Vera,
in the presence of death. Would that God had seen fit to spare us for
another and a better life in a land without tyranny and oppression!
But regrets are vain. It is sweeter to die this way together than to be
torn apart and dragged back to the horrors of Siberia.”
His eyes met hers, and he read in their swift, mute glance the
echo of his own words.
With one hand she drew his head down. “Victor,” she whispered,
“you have made death sweet. Its bitterness is gone.” Then their lips
met, and as the waves thundered around them Sandoff felt his hand
slipping from the boat.
A low cry from the sailor roused him, and unconsciously his fingers
tightened anew on the keel. The spot where Shamarin had been was
empty—the brave fellow had gone down. For him there was an end
of toil and suffering.
Again that low cry! The seaman was kneeling on the capsized
craft, staring ahead through the gloom. “A boat! a boat!” he cried
hoarsely.
“He is mad,” thought Sandoff. “He sees no boat,” but even as he
strained Vera to his breast and felt the icy waters rising higher
around him, a dark object shot forward over the waves, and a voice
cried, “Sandoff! Sandoff!”
The next instant he and his burden were snatched from the icy
waters, and then remembrance left him.
When his senses returned, he was lying, warm and comfortable, in
a snug berth on board the Grenelle. As in a dream he saw kind faces
about him and heard Maurice Dupont’s voice:
“Sandoff, my dear fellow, you are safe now. The yacht is already
under way. We are bound for France. It was providence that guided
us when we started out to search for you in the other boat. We
arrived just in time—but too late to save your companion. The brave
fellow had gone down.”
Sandoff made an effort to rise. “Vera, where is she?” he asked.
“Safe, my dear fellow, safe and well. You will see her tomorrow.”
Sandoff smiled and his eyes closed. He was sleeping peacefully.
Toward the end of the following June the Grenelle entered the
harbor of Marseilles, and Sandoff and Vera journeyed by rail to
Paris, accompanied by Maurice Dupont.
But little more remains to be told. Vera and Sandoff were married
in Paris, where both had friends, and the honeymoon was spent in
Maurice Dupont’s villa at Asnieres. They will never return to Russia,
nor have they any desire to do so. They live happily in their adopted
country, but if they are spared to the extreme limit of old age they
can never forget the terrible adventures they shared together when
escaping from the mines of Kara, or that memorable night off the
Siberian coast when poor Felix Shamarin lost his life in the sea he
toiled so hard to reach.
EDITORIAL ETCHINGS.
FROM WEEKLY TO MAGAZINE.
In the issue of the 18th of August, Munsey’s Weekly announced
that thereafter that publication would be issued monthly and in
magazine form, instead of weekly, and that the name would
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been made in the belief that the Magazine will furnish broader scope
for serious work than the Weekly, that its ample pages and higher
grade of art will remove it to a more desirable distance from the daily
press, which with its illustrations and its great Sunday issues has, to
a very great extent, usurped the position once held by the illustrated
weekly journals of this country.
Now that the transition from Weekly to Magazine is accomplished
it will be the purpose of the management to make Munsey’s
Magazine a publication of the best grade—one that shall be strong
in illustration, instructive in its heavier articles and entertaining in its
fiction. Life is a necessary condition of growth, and as we now have
life so shall growth follow—growth in everything that goes to round
out a magazine in whatever approaches the ideal.
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