The storm had spent its fury; dawn broke in a clear, blue, rain-washed sky.  Bright-hued birds lifted a swelling chorus from the trees, on whose broad leaves beads of water sparkled like diamonds, quivering in the gentle morning breeze.

At a small stream that wound over the sands to join the sea, hidden beyond a fringe of trees and shrubs, a man bent to lave his hands and face.  He performed his ablutions after the manner of his kind, grunting lustily and splashing like a buffalo.  But in the midst of these splashings, he suddenly lifted his head, his tawny hair dripping and water running in rivulets over his brawny shoulders.  For a second he crouched in a listening attitude, then was on his feet facing inland, sword in hand, all in one motion.  Then he froze, glaring wide-mouthed.

A man even bigger than himself was striding toward him over the sands, making no attempt at stealth.  The pirate's eyes widened as he stared at the close-fitting silk breeches, the high flaring-topped boots, the wide-skirted coat, and the headgear of a hundred years ago.  There was a broad cutlass in the stranger's hand and unmistakable purpose in his approach.

The pirate went pale as recognition blazed in his eyes.  "You!" he ejaculated unbelievingly.  "By Mitra, you!"

Oaths streamed from his lips as he heaved up his cutlass.  The birds rose in flaming showers from the trees as the clang of steel interrupted their song.  Blue sparks flew from the hacking blades, and the sand grated and ground under the stamping boot heels.  Then the clash of steel ended in a chopping crunch, and one man went to his knees with a choking gasp.  The hilt escaped his nerveless hand; he slid full-length on the sand, which reddened with his blood.  With a dying effort, he fumbled at his girdle and drew something from it, tried to lift it to his mouth, then stiffened convulsively and went limp.

The conqueror bent and ruthlessly tore the stiffening fingers from the object they crumpled in their desperate grasp.

Zarono and Valenso stood on the beach, staring at the driftwood that their men were gathering - spars, pieces of mast, broken timbers.  So savagely had the storm hammered Zarono's ship against the low cliffs that most of the salvage was matchwood.  A short distance behind them stood Belesa, listening to their conversation with one arm around Tina.  Belesa was pale and listless, apathetic to whatever Fate held in store for her.  She heard what the men said, but with little interest.  She was crushed by the realization that she was but a pawn in the game, however it was to be played out - whether it was to be a wretched life, dragged out on that desolate coast, or a return effected somehow to some civilized land.