CHAPTER XXThe oars moved with long, slow, silent strokes, the muffled blades making no more sound than would be concealed by the lapping of the water on the sea-wall, or the wind would carry away.
The night was dark, and Venetia, sitting in the bow of the boat, could see no more than the dim outline of St. Angelo’s towers rising blackly against the sky.
Hassan himself sat at her side. He leaned forward, his eyes searching the night. His presence there may be held for proof of the reckless-seeming courage which had made his name one that the world knew, but there was calculation in what he did.
“You must go slowly,” she whispered, “and give me time. It is hard to be exact here, but we cannot be greatly wrong.”
“If you fail,” he said, “there will be no mercy from me. There shall not be l
