SACRED TROTH The tide was at its full when Peter began the ascent to King Arthur's Castle--the sea a vast stretch of quivering silver fringed with a mist of flying spray.

In the strange, sharp lights and shadows cast by the round moon overhead, the great crags of the promontory jutted out like the turrets of some ancient fortress--blackly etched against the tender, irresolute blue of the evening sky.
But Peter went on unheedingly.

The mystic charm had no power to hold him to-night.

The only thing that mattered was Nan--her safety.

Was she lying hurt somewhere within the crumbling walls of the castle?
Or had she missed her footing and plunged headlong into that sea which boomed incessantly against the cliffs?
It wasn't scenery that mattered.