"I am thinking and you are thinking," said Turnbull, "that it is
damned silly to waste all that champagne."

Something like the spectre of a smile appeared on the unsmiling
visage of the Gael; and he made at least no movement of dissent.

"We could drink all the wine and smoke all the cigars easily in a
week," said Turnbull; "and that would be to die feasting like
heroes."

"Yes, and there is something else," said MacIan, with slight
hesitation. "You see, we are on an almost unknown rock, lost in
the Atlantic. The police will never catch us; but then neither
may the public ever hear of us; and that was one of the things we
wanted." Then, after a pause, he said, drawing in the sand with
his sword-point: "She may never hear of it at all."

"Well?" inquired the other, puffing at his cigar.

"Well," said MacIan, "we might occupy a day or two in drawing up
a thorough and complete statement of what we did and why we did
it, and all about both our points of view. Then we could leave
one copy on the island whatever happens to us and put another in
an empty bottle and send it out to sea, as they do in the books."

"A good idea," said Turnbull, "and now let us finish unpacking."

As MacIan, a tall, almost ghostly figure, paced along the edge of
sand that ran round the islet, the purple but cloudy poetry which