He held his breath instinctively, of course, but it seemed as if his

lungs and heart would burst. His whole being was merged in two frantic

desires: to keep on holding his breath, and not to let go of the woman

who clung to him. Mercifully, although his body had shielded hers, she

had almost lost consciousness. There remained to her only the desperate

instinct to cling. She twined her arms and legs about him. He drew her

closer and closer, although the tremendous thrust of the sea seemed to

be striving to tear them apart as well as draw them under. Thus linked

into a human warp and woof, they were hurled down and down, out and out.

Just when he had come to the conclusion that further resistance was

impossible, that he must breathe or die, or breathe and die, the two

interwoven figures, caught in a mad whirl of the torrent, were thrown

upward. Their movements were arrow-like in their swiftness; or, better,

they were driven as a stone from a mighty catapult. Swimming was

impossible. There was no effort that could be made. There was nothing

that he or the woman could do but to cling tighter and tighter. To hold

on, that was all!

Truda's grass petticoats were torn to pieces in an instant. The water,

in its awful churning, stripped Beekman to his bare skin. It would have

torn his shoes off if he had been wearing them. Nothing that he had

ever imagined equalled the force, the pressure, the stripping, ripping

suction; the driving, beating, thrusting of the sea, unless it was a

full-fledged western tornado. He had met such on the plains. Of course,

these comparisons did not occur to him then. All he thought of when

they were thrown out of the water and into the spray-laden air, which

made seeing difficult, but not impossible, was to breathe, to breathe

quickly and deep so as to be prepared for the next buffet of fortune.

As soon as he struck the air he opened his eyes. They were still in the

very midst of the deep, cylindrical harbor, its dark walls seen vaguely

through the spray uptossed by the broken bore. His brain registered

impressions almost faster than the afferent and efferent nerves could

carry them. The swiftness with which the two bodies, still clinging

together, were whirled about in the maelstrom caused by the introduction

of these titanic forces within the narrow confines of this gulf alone

kept them from sinking. Beekman could not have made a stroke for any

reason. He was incapable even of movement of his own.

In the first place, he was so bruised and beaten and exhausted by the

tremendous pressure of the water that every muscle was almost useless.

In the second place, he could not let go of the girl, even with one arm.

He had held her only by a superhuman effort of will and strength which

must have been met and equalled by a similar determination on her part.

Even to free one hand, meant parting. It flashed into his mind that

death was at hand; that no human beings could live in such a sea; that

the next second would find them cast beyond the whirling periphery of

the vortex and hurled against the rocks. At least, they could, and

would, die together.

Yet, Beekman suddenly became aware that the harbor entrance was wider

than before. He noticed, too, that the waters appeared to be receding,

although the tumult, for instance, of the rapids of the Niagara River,

was as nothing to it. The next instant, as if nature had not yet

exhausted her malefic powers, a second earthquake, traveling more slowly

than the wave which the first shock engendered, reached the island. By

chance--or was it God?--the whirling revolution of the two human beings

carried them farthest from the nearer shore when this last appalling

cataclysm of nature took place. The solid wall before them seemed to

melt away before Beekman's eyes and dissolve into the vague mist and

foam. The sight terrified him perhaps more than anything else. It

benumbed his very soul. Not only had the foundations of the great deep

been broken up, but the immutable hills themselves were shaking like the

sea. Was it the end of the world, or only the end of Beekman and Truda?

The quivering transmitted even through the boiling water seemed to still

the wave for a moment. As Beekman hung poised, almost as a soul might,

'twixt heaven and earth, the moment the mad action of the water stopped

they began to sink. Then he did strike out feebly, but desperately.

The girl clung to him, half senseless, a perfectly dead weight in his

arms. The great wall of rock before him wavered, bent forward. It

seemed to rise in the air. It slipped downward with the sound of a

mighty rending. Screams as of an earth in labor pains seemed to fill

his ear. He caught a glimpse of a great rift, beyond which he could

see, as no mortal had ever seen before from where he floated, the palms

of the upland. And then the falling rock smote the water.

Being luckily farthest away, and just opposite the entrance, the great

wave which was engendered drove the two far out to sea. He had time to

note, as he swept through the now strangely widened entrance, that he

could not see a trace of the barrier. The water, which barely reached

its highest point at the highest tide, had completely buried it.

Outside the narrow, enclosed harbor, while the waves still rolled

terribly, the sea was smoother. They did not break. The force of the

surge which had hurled them seaward being spent, they began to sink

again. The instinct of life was still present, and although every

motion was anguish, Beekman thought it safe to free one hand with which

he continued to strike out boldly.

His painful swimming was aimless. Indeed, it was only the result of a

now unconscious determination to keep afloat as long as strength

remained. He must go whither the waves carried him. By this time Truda

had fainted dead away. Her grasp on his neck relaxed. She straightened

out in the water. He turned her on her back, caught her long hair,

which had been blown out like a flag, in his teeth and swam on.

While it would only be for a few moments, still the spirit of the race,

the indomitable persistence of humanity--that quality by which at least

it has some claim to be considered begot of Divinity--made him swim on,

driven by wind and sea and tossed helplessly about. He set his teeth

more tightly, shut his eyes, and struck out and out and out. He would

not give up his own life. He would not desist from the efforts to

preserve, even for a few swiftly passing instants, that life, dearer

than his own, which trailed behind him as he swam.

But he reached the end of his strength. Some instinct made him open his

eyes and lift his head: the old instinct to die with head up, facing the

enemy; not to pass with averted countenance and in shrinking posture.

Before him he saw something white. He did not know what it was, but the

next moment, in the grinding sway of the sea, it struck him hard on the

shoulder. He had strength enough to clutch at it ere he went down. It

had struck him on the right arm, and the force of the blow had deprived

him of the use of that vital member. Ordinarily, he could have swam

with one arm, but not now.

As he clutched the object before him, it occurred to him that this was

the end. He wished that he could have had another word with Truda;

another kiss; but, to his surprise, he found that he was not sinking.

To his brain came the consciousness that he was touching something

familiar. He looked again. It was dancing and bobbing in the seas, but

he was near enough now to recognize what brief stay Providence had

thrown to his hand. It was wood, painted white. He saw the boards

lap-streaked together. It presented a strangely familiar look.

Through water-filled eye gate, through numbed arm and bruised body gate,

it told its story to the man's brain. That he could read the message,

was an evidence of his vital force and infinite determination. A ship's

boat, the forward part half under water, yet riding singularly light.

He could not yet reason as to what boat it was, or how it came to be

there, but the fact was indelibly impressed upon his consciousness. It

meant a further respite from death; another temporary stay on their

dread journey. They were not beaten yet.

His right arm was useless. He tried desperately to lift it, but could

not. He thought it might have been paralyzed, but the pain, when he

attempted to move it, suggested to him that it might be broken. He did

not dare to let go with his left arm, and yet if he did not draw his

fainting companion up on that boat, she would die. They were now

surging far to sea, the reflex of the great tidal wave rolling them on.

He could turn his head and see Truda's body half buried in the water.

Still holding the boat, which lay across him--he had struck it

broadside--with his left hand he worked himself around till the sides

running aft embraced him. He felt about with his foot and discovered at

once that the after part of the boat was gone. He did not yet have wit

enough to determine why the forward part of the boat floated so far out

of water. At any rate, he was in a much better position for action.

Pulling and swimming, he got himself well between the two sides, with

the bow directly in front of him. Then he drew himself to the right,

and, although the pressure by which he held himself by hand and shoulder

from washing out of the boat induced the most excruciating pain in his

arm, he dared to release his grasp on the gunwale with his left hand.

Still holding Truck's golden hair in his teeth, he reached out and drew

her forward with his left arm. By an effort--he never knew how to

account for the feat of strength--he got her to the boat; then, seizing

her under the arms with his left arm, he forced her upon the bow of the

boat until her head lay back upon a little flat platform, which he soon

discovered was a locker, or compartment in the very eyes of the boat.

Thus, himself lying across the boat, holding himself steady by the

pressure of his knee and back, and the girl lying along the boat

lengthwise, her head on the forward compartment, his left arm holding

her, he knew he had done all that was possible. The pain in his right

arm and shoulder had passed away, leaving a sort of deadness.

There was a broken thwart just back of him, and he found that he could

relax his pressure a little and sink back against this jagged piece of

wood without slipping into the sea. It was a good thing, he realized,

for the tremendous thrust of his legs against the unsupported side of

the boat might have torn apart even the frail support that was left.

In all this, Truda had, as yet, made no sign of life. He was sure that

she had not been drowned. He thought the shock, and the battering, and

the terror had rendered her unconscious. Whatever it was, there was

nothing more that he could do except to hold on in his constricted

condition and wait. He told himself a thousand times that it was

useless; that it would be, perhaps, best in the end to let go, but the

indomitable ego did not sanction that.

Rising and falling on the seas, he could catch glimpses of the island.

It was so changed by tidal wave and earthquake that he never could have

recognized it. The harbor was gone. Here and there, when they rose on

the crest of a wave, he could see the barrier reef. A part of it had

been torn away. Where had been a wall was a great concavity that led

upward and inward. The earthquake had done that. What had it done to

the people of the island? He was too far away by this time to

distinguish much except the general transformation.

As they floated on, his eye, ceaselessly roving the waters, caught sight

of a brown object rising and falling, tumbling and turning with the

helpless look of a once living thing driven and tossed. A freak of the

sea brought it nearer. Another freak of the sea turned the brown object

over. He saw that it was Hano, dead. He wondered if all the other

denizens of the island had met a like fate. Of course, the water could

not reach them as it had reached Hano, and Beekman, and Truda, but the

earthquake--then, as he speculated hazily, the sun suddenly appeared.

The black bank of cloud was riven and torn. Its greater moiety drifted

to leeward, driven by some strange and powerful wind of the upper air.

Fortunately, where they floated there was but a gentle breeze.

The warmth, the rest, it may be, he knew not what, revived the woman.

She opened her eyes, lifted her head, his left arm tightened about her.

She bent to him.

"Is this another world?" she gasped brokenly.

"Not yet," answered the man.

"How did we come here?" Before he could answer, she cried, "I remember.

The wave. What is this?" she asked after a time.

"A boat," he answered, and then he knew that it was the forward half of

the wrecked whaleboat which had brought him to the island, had landed on

the barrier, had been torn from the pinnacles of rock by the same sea

that had overwhelmed them, and which had been thrust into his hand for

their salvation.

"We shall die here in the water," said the girl, "but we shall die

together."

The man shook his head.

"I think not. God, our God, has preserved us so far. He has given us

this poor support. It can not be that this is the end."

It was almost the end of Beekman, in spite of his brave words; for, now

that Truda was safe and alive, now that he had achieved the impossible,

now that, by God's will and her lover's help, she had been brought

through the maelstrom, he fainted dead away. His head fell back. His

knees relaxed. His hand unclasped. His arm released her. But for that

broken thwart, he would have slid away and out of sight. It was Truda's

turn. She caught him by the shoulder. She crouched down on the forward

compartment and held him until consciousness returned. When he could

think coherently, he remembered how he had put the air-tight tanks back,

and he blessed God for having inspired him to that, at the time, useless

action. It was that air-tight compartment which held them. Truda

dragged his head free of the water and held him there until he recovered

his strength a little. The sharp pain in his arm, which had been

numbed, helped to keep him from fainting again.

And so they drifted side by side, a naked man and woman, as they might

have come from a Garden of Eden, on the poor shattered remains of a

small boat, their weight keeping it awash in the long, still rolling,

but gradually subsiding waves, thanking God for life, for that poor

support, and for love. And by and by the night fell, and still they

clung to each other, floating on calming seas, until presently the boat

came to a rest beneath the tropic stars staring down upon these

jettisoned inhabitants of that island paradise, these bits of human

flotsam kept above the waters by love and God.

*BOOK IV*

*"*_*I've a neater, sweeter maiden,

In a cleaner, greener land*_*"*

*CHAPTER XXVI*

*IN DANGER ALL*

It was, indeed, a solemn little group that was seated around the table

in the great cabin of the _Stephanie_. The dominant spirit of the

occasion was not the masterful financier, the brilliant young executive,

or the beautiful and charming maiden. It was a grizzled veteran sailor

who had called the conference in that section of the _Stephanie_ which

he rarely entered save for business purposes. The grave anxiety of

Captain Weatherby's face was reflected in the faces of John Maynard,

George Harnash, and Stephanie Maynard.

"And you think the yacht's condition is serious, do you?" asked Maynard.

"Just about as serious as it could be, Mr. Maynard," answered the

captain.

"Yet there's not a better built ship on the seas than this," observed

Harnash.

"Granted," said Captain Weatherby; "she's all that money and skill and

steel and science could make her, but she's only a manufactured article,

after all, and she has just bucked the biggest thing in nature. That

she has come off as well as she has is a tribute to her builders."

"And to her sailing master," put in Stephanie deftly.

"If you hadn't handled her just as you did, none of us would be here

now," added Harnash heartily.

"That's as may be," answered the captain modestly.

"It's the blessing of God and your own skill," commented Maynard.

But the captain went on.

"We are here, but the yacht is in bad condition. She is making water

faster than the pumps can keep it down."

"Is there any immediate danger of our foundering?" asked Maynard.

"Every danger. In fact, it is certain, unless--"

The captain paused.

"Unless what?" asked the owner.

"I've sailed with you a long time, now, Mr. Maynard. I know your temper

on land and sea, and that of these young people, as well. What you want

is the plain, blunt truth, and you're going to get it. Unless I can

beach this yacht somewhere within the next twenty-four hours, send a

diver down, and, if necessary, careen her, and come at the leaks, she--"

He paused again. It was not necessary for him to go on. His meaning was

obvious to all of them.

"In that case, there are always the boats," observed Harnash.

"Have you been on deck this morning, Mr. Harnash?" asked the captain.

"Yes, I have."

"How many boats did you see?"

"By Jove!" exclaimed Harnash, "I forgot that."

"Of course," said the captain, smiling grimly at his own sarcasm; "and a

landlubber like you, meaning no offense, sir, wouldn't be apt to notice

it, but the deck has been swept clean. The bridge is still there, and

the smoke stacks, but pretty much everything else is gone. There's not

a boat left at the davits, and even the launch amidships is badly stove

up."

"A raft?" said old Maynard.

"There's not much woodwork in this boat fit to make a raft out of, sir,"

answered the captain, "but I've got the men at work on the wooden

fittings and doors trying to patch up something."

"Of course, we're not in any immediate danger," said Stephanie.

"Depends upon what you mean by 'immediate,' Miss Maynard. The yacht

will float for twenty-four hours; perhaps thirty-six."

"Then, after that, we shall be in God's hands," said the girl quietly.

It was a platitude, of course; but, in great emergencies, humanity

always resorts to platitudes. They are familiar; made to order, as it

were; and resorted to as the line of least resistance. There are

certain conventional expressions to which man instinctively reverts.

Men exclaim, "My God!" in the crisis, even though He be none of theirs

and they have not hitherto known Him.

"In His hands, Miss, and mine," said the captain steadily with the

assurance of the capable and efficient.

"What else have you done or planned?" asked Maynard.

"I've searched for the leak but we cannot locate it. The hours after

the tidal wave were so full that it got a start on us, but we are

keeping the pumps going while working away at the raft."

"Of course; but that is a last resort."

"I'm driving the ship as hard as I can, too, sir."

"In the hope of what?"

"There's an uninhabited island to the nor'west of us; hasn't even a name

that anyone recognizes. I'm heading for it."

"Can you careen the ship there?"

The captain shook his head.

"The charts say that it is completely surrounded by a barrier reef. It

appears to be a volcanic rock about which the coral builders have been

busy. But it is the nearest land; the only land we can possibly make in

our present condition; and, at least, we won't drown on it. We can save

enough from the _Stephanie_ to support life, and I have no doubt we can

find some means of getting away or communicating with other ships,"

continued the veteran sailor confidently, although he knew, and everyone

else realized, more or less, that the chance of either was very slim.

"Well, whatever happens to us, Captain Weatherby," said Harnash, "I'll

never forget my last glimpses of you on the bridge, jumping the boat at

full speed into that tidal wave."

"It was our only chance, Mr. Harnash," said the captain. "If that wave

had caught us broadside, or even on the quarter or astern, we would have

gone down like a stone."

Indeed, no one aboard the ship would ever forget the approach of that

great, roaring, thunderous tidal wave. No one would ever fail to

remember how Captain Weatherby, as cool as he was at that moment in the

cabin, standing on the bridge, had shifted his helm, had pointed the

bows of the yacht at the rushing, whirling water, had signaled for every

pound of steam, and had driven the great white ship at full speed fairly

and squarely into the midst of it.

Before it broke and fell the three passengers had been ordered--yes,

that is the word, ordered--below. Captain Weatherby had been prepared

to detail seamen, who would have obeyed him unquestionably, to carry the

great magnate who owned the ship and the other two below if they had

hesitated a moment in complying with his command. He did not even stop

in the emergency to put it in the form of a request or suggestion. John

Maynard knew a man when he saw him, and without a moment's hesitation,

he went aft and plunged below with the others, just in time, too, for

the hatches to be battened down and every opening through which the

water could penetrate the ship from above as tightly closed as the wit

of man could devise. They would never forget, either, how they stood

close together in the cabin, waiting the meeting of ship and sea.

They could not see, but they could feel the appalling shock of the bows

of steel encountering the hurtling water wall. They could feel the

gigantic wave break over the deck and fall crashing upon the steel

ceiling over their heads. So great was the tumult, so loud the smashing

falling of the water, that they did not hear the rending and tearing of

the upper works of the ship, the boats carrying away, the deckhouse

going adrift, and everything movable swept astern; and even the screams

of some of the men, washed helplessly away, in spite of the life lines,

at which they clutched frantically, were not noticed in the wild tumult

of the storm.

Following the great wave came the short but terrible cyclonic

disturbance, which almost completed their undoing. It was not until

calmer weather supervened and the night fell that Captain Weatherby

could take account of his ship and of his crew. He deemed it best to

say nothing of his terrifying discoveries until the morning, but at dawn

he had awakened his passengers to the melancholy conference in the

cabin.

It was rare, indeed, that John Maynard found himself helpless. There

were few situations to which his readiness, his resources, his

inventiveness were unequal; but this was one. It was Captain

Weatherby's field of action. There was nothing that Maynard could

contribute, except an example of cheerful willingness to do what he was

told without hesitation and without argument. It was a good lesson for

the master financier, albeit the price he bade fair to pay for the

learning of it might render it of little avail.

"Well, Captain Weatherby," he said, rising, "as my daughter says, we are

in God's hands, and, as you justly added, in yours, too. We have every

confidence in you that you will do the best for us that humanity can do

under God. If it should prove of no avail, it will not be your fault.

Meanwhile, this is the first chance I've had to express my admiration

and gratitude. My friendship and respect you have had for a long time,

but never as today." Maynard extended his hand to him.

"Mine, too," said Harnash, following the older man's example.

Stephanie, more moved than the other two, less restrained, perhaps,

slipped her arm about the captain's neck and kissed him on his

weather-beaten check.

"As from your daughter at home," she said.

"Here are brave hearts," said the captain, deeply touched. "Good stuff

in all of you. We'll all fight harder because of this," he added.

The next moment the hatchway was darkened by one of the junior officers.

"Captain Weatherby," he began.

"What is it, Mr. Lefner?"

"We've made out the wreck of a boat adrift off the starboard bow with

two people on her; one of them at least is alive, for through the glass

we can see hands waved."

"Have a boat cleared away at--" He stopped. He had forgotten for the

moment that there were no boats. He glanced up at the telltale compass

above his head and noticed the shifting of the needle. The first

officer was changing the course of the yacht to run down the wreck; that

would be the only way. "We are still capable of saving life, Mr.

Maynard, even though it be for a little space. Perhaps you would like

to come on deck. It is safe enough now. I've rigged up a railing of

life lines to take the place of those carried away."

He put his foot on the ladder and mounted to the deck, followed by the

others. Harnash snatched a glass from the transom as he passed. They

knew exactly where to look for the wreck. It was quite visible to the

naked eyes. There were no glasses on the bridge. It had been stripped

clean of everything by the wave and only stood by a miracle. The whole

party moved up toward the bow of the ship and mounted the bridge.

Harnash handed the glass to Captain Weatherby. He focused it and fixed

his eyes on the rapidly nearing object, now directly over the bows,

since the yacht's course had been changed.

"I make out two naked figures on what appears to be the fore part of a

whaleboat. One of them is a woman, sir," he observed, handing the glass

to Mr. Maynard, who stared and then passed it to the others standing by.

"Ropes to the starboard gangway," said Mr. Gardner, the first officer,

after a word with the captain. "Mr. Gersey," he spoke to a veteran

seaman, who stood forward, easily balancing himself to the roll of the

ship, his arms folded. Instantly the boatswain turned and saluted.

"Stand by the starboard gangway. Have some hands ready at the battens

with a rope. One of those castaways doesn't look able to help himself,

and we'll have to draw him aboard."

"Aye, aye, sir," he answered, turning aft to the gangway, followed by

the seamen he summoned to his assistance.

Although she was already deep in the water and sluggish, the _Stephanie_

was under complete command. Nicely steered, she passed the bit of wreck

to windward and rounded to. Her engines had been stopped previously, and

just as the wreck surged to the gangway she came to a rest in the gently

moving sea. Gersey had sent Templin, who had proved himself one of the

smartest seamen on the yacht, down the battens of the starboard gangway

with a rope's end, in which a bowline had been cast. Standing on the

lower batten with the water halfway up to his waist on account of the

ever-deepening draught of the leaking yacht, Templin caught the surging

boat by the stem and held it firmly.

The woman was sitting crouched down on the forward lockers, or what

remained of them. Templin motioned her to try the battens. She shook

her head and pointed to the figure of the man, who lay at her feet, his

head in the very bows of the boat, his legs dragging in the water. He

was alive, but apparently helpless. His face was flushed and his eyes

bright with fever. Templin sensed the situation at once.

"The lady wants the man passed aboard first," he called out.

Gersey nodded. He sent another seaman down to help Templin, and

although the situation was difficult, the two men worked together

intelligently. They passed the bowline around the body of the man, drew

it tight, and the next moment willing hands aboard ship hauled away, and

while Templin bore the body out so it would not scrape along the sides

of the yacht, the man was soon drawn aboard. The girl watched without a

word, but in great anxiety, until this rescue had been effected. Then

she strove to rise, but she had been so cramped by sitting so long in

that position that she could not make it. The seamen helped her to her

feet and, half carrying, half urging, they finally got her on the deck.

She had no sooner set foot thereon than she collapsed and fell in a dead

faint. The officers and men were crowded about the two figures near the

gangway, when Maynard, Harnash, and Stephanie approached.

"Take the woman to my cabin," said Stephanie. She turned to her maid,

who had also come on deck, as two of the seamen picked up the fainting

castaway and bore her aft. "Celeste, you and I will look after her,

with Dr. Welch's help."

"At your service, Miss Maynard," said the ship's surgeon, following her.

"Take the man aft to the spare cabin," said Maynard, as the others moved

away. "Dr. Welch, you'd better examine him as soon as you can.

Harnash--"

But Harnash did not hear. He was bending over the prostrate man. The

man's face was covered with a thick, short, dark beard and mustache, but

there was no mistaking him. Harnash had been struck by something

familiar in his appearance as the wreck lay alongside, and when he bent

over him on the deck he knew at once who it was, in spite of his beard.

"This is the man we have been seeking," he said to Mr. Maynard.

"Good God!" exclaimed Maynard, looking hard in turn. "Yes," he added,

"it's Beekman!"

*CHAPTER XXVII*

*THE SPEECHLESS CASTAWAYS*

It was broad daylight by this time, and the high peak of the island was

already visible, although low on the horizon. Ordinarily, the arrival

of the castaways would have been a matter of deepest interest to Captain

Weatherby, his officers and the men on the ship, but under the

circumstances their presence simply meant two more persons to feed and

care for. His owner could look after them. Indeed, Captain Weatherby

had not left the bridge as the two had been passed aboard, and he had

not heard that one of the persons he had picked up was the man for whom

they had been combing the seas in an exhaustive search of every island

in Polynesia.

He was engaged in the desperate task of getting the sluggish ship to the

island, if possible, before she sank. The existence of that island was

charted, but it was marked as uninhabited, desolate, completely

encircled by a formidable reef and very dangerous. Ships avoided it,

giving it a wide berth. It promised them little. Still, in their

condition, perhaps a very little meant the wide difference--or is it

narrow?--between life and death. A good sailor, like a good doctor,

never gives up entirely until the very end. While the ship floats she

has life, and while she has life there is hope; but Captain Weatherby

was forced to admit to himself that the amount of hope was very small,

indeed; that is, for the ship, and not much more, he feared, for her

people.

Ordinarily, he could have made the run to the island in half a day. It

seemed to him under present conditions he would be fortunate if he

reached it by evening, and yet he must reach it before dark if he were

to save the lives committed to his care and skill. To make a landing

through the breakers on a reef-encircled island by means of an

improvised raft would be an almost impossible task in daylight, and

under the most favorable circumstances, and quite an impossible task at

night in any sort of sea. Consequently, he drove the waterlogged

_Stephanie_ as fast as she could be driven in her condition, his chief

engineer ably seconding him, employing every expedient to keep up steam

and to increase the speed.

Weatherby was a resourceful man. He had spent some years in Cramp's

shipyard in Philadelphia, after retiring from the command of great

liners. The love of the sea was strong upon him, however, and he had

been tempted to the easy and pleasant work of commanding the _Stephanie_

by the munificent offers of Maynard, who, since he owned the biggest

yacht afloat, was not satisfied with any but the best captain.

Therefore, if Captain Weatherby could find a suitable strip of sand on

which to beach the ship, if necessary to careen her, he believed that

with his carefully selected force of engineers and mechanics and seamen

he could stop the leak and put her in seaworthy condition again.

However, that was not to be thought of. That desolate, reef-guarded

island toward which they were heading was the only one they could by any

possibility hope to reach, and if the charts were true, as they

undoubtedly were, it would not afford any facilities whatsoever for such

work as would be necessary. It never occurred to him that the

earthquake which had raised the tidal wave which had wrought their

undoing might have broken the barrier and have changed conditions at the

island, so as to provide him with the beach he craved. He was simply

going to the island, because, when the ship sank, it would at least

enable them to keep alive, for a little while longer, at any rate.

Consequently, he paid no attention whatever to the pair he had rescued

as he put the ship on her course again.

There were plenty of people capable of looking after them better than

he. Indeed, to his casual inspection they seemed to be two islanders,

rather fairer of skin than those whom he knew. He wondered how they

came to be where they were. He had seen that the wreck which had kept

them up was part of a ship's boat and not the remains of a native

vessel. It did, indeed, occur to him that possibly they might have come

from that island for which he was heading, which might not be

uninhabited, after all, but time would soon settle those problems. In

the meantime his duty was clear.

Beekman was incapable of recognizing any one. He had been silent enough

in the water, but when they got him on deck he had begun to mutter

incoherently things they could not understand. Harnash, after his

discovery of his identity, seemed incapable of action. The sight of his

friend brought back vividly his own perfidy, and the desperate condition

in which he saw Beekman to be intensified the swift and sudden

recollection of his own baseness. Mr. Maynard had nothing with which to

reproach himself, of course, and it was he who first recovered himself

and repeated his order that Beekman should be taken to the cabin.

For a moment Harnash found himself wishing they had not found Beekman,

and for a moment Maynard, in whose good graces Harnash had become more

and more solidly entrenched, had the same thought; on his young

subordinate's account only, of course. As the days of the cruise had

passed without any tidings of the missing man, and as the possibilities

of their search grew smaller and smaller, they both became resigned to

and in a measure satisfied with the situation, even if Stephanie had not

shared in their feelings.

Harnash had made a grievous error; he had done an unworthy thing. The

consequences had been such as no one had dreamed of, but Harnash had

manfully confessed and he had done his best to atone. Mr. Maynard could

not be in the presence of Harnash and his daughter without realizing the

depth and permanence of their devotion. It was deplorable, of course,

that Beekman had been sacrificed to their happiness, but there was no

use blinking the facts. Here was Beekman alive and on the ship. Maynard

never dreamed but that he would at once claim Stephanie for his wife,

and by putting himself in Beekman's position, Maynard could easily

imagine what his feelings toward Harnash would be when he knew.

Whatever happened, Beekman had to be told if he lived. It was all

terribly awkward and embarrassing and quite an impossible situation.

Nor was Maynard unmindful of the fact that the naked man before him,

over whom a coat had been hastily thrown, had been found adrift with a

woman. He had no doubt that some irregular connection had been entered

into, or some sort of relationship had grown up between the castaways.

This woman was presumably a native, but that would be no ultimate

barrier toward Beekman's claim to marriage with Stephanie. At any rate,

the situation, which had gradually been clearing because they had not

found him, became suddenly more complex than ever when they did. Both

Harnash and Maynard were ashamed of their feelings, and that very shame,

the personal humiliation a man experiences who has given way momentarily

to unworthy thoughts or impulses, made them more resolutely determined

to do everything in their power for him.

The yacht carried a surgeon, of course, who messed with the officers,

and was scarcely admitted to any more social intimacy with the owner and

his party than the others. Dr. Welch had met the party in the gangway,

and in obedience to the suggestion from Stephanie, he had followed her

into the cabin. The maid's cabin was abaft the bathroom and dressing

room, which separated it from Stephanie's luxurious cabin. There was a

spare berth in Celeste's cabin and there the unconscious Truda was

bestowed. The doctor made a swift personal examination.

"There's nothing very much the matter with her," he said at last;

"exposure, cold, lack of food or drink, prolonged nervous strain, and

surprise probably account for her collapse."

He administered proper restoratives, directed that she be well rubbed

down and wrapped in blankets and given suitable food and drink, and

predicted that in a day or two she would be all right, which, indeed,

proved to be the case.

"Remarkably light colored for a Polynesian," he observed professionally

to Stephanie as he turned away to leave his patient in the care of the

two women.

"Yes, and with a distinctly European cast of countenance," answered the

girl.

She bent over her as the doctor left the room in obedience to a summons

from Harnash that he come to the other cabin to look at the other

castaway immediately.

Stephanie was the exact antithesis of Truda; dark where the other was

fair, brown eyed where the other was blue eyed. To be sure, Truda's

dazzling fairness had been modified by the sun under which she lived,

and Stephanie's complexion was clearer, if darker, owing to her more

sheltered habit of life, but Stephanie recognized to the full the

extraordinary beauty of the sea nymph before her.

Truda, who had never seen so splendid a brunette, made the same

unconscious acknowledgment as her civilized sister. The yacht, its

sumptuous fittings, the wonderful things about her, this extraordinary

being bending over her in her unusual clothes, all added to the poor

little islander's dismay. Even Celeste, by no means unpleasing in her

trim maid's dress, was a thing for Truda to wonder over. These were the

women of that other faraway world of which Beekman had told her. It

could not be that in their presence he could continue to love her, and

so Truda, agonizingly jealous, was afraid. Everything was new and

strange; the yacht itself, the deep throbbing of the hard-pushed

engines, the very bed on which she lay, the expensive furnishings of the

cabins, added to her trepidation and alarm. Save so far as mental habit

and life had been altered by intercourse with Beekman and what he had

taught her, she was still, in many of her instincts and habits, a

savage, and a savage suddenly and with no warning introduced to the

highest civilization.

Fear tied her tongue. She had not said a word. She would not speak.

It seemed to her that she had forgotten how to use any language but the

native speech of the island. She could only stare in dismay, appalled,

silent. Stephanie had an exquisite voice; low, trained, cultivated.

Beekman had often admired it and her use of it. She was a singer, and

her speaking voice, unlike that of many singers, was as musical as the

other. She bent over the girl and addressed her in English.

"What is your name?"

Truda understood well enough, but she was utterly incapable of

answering. Her lips could scarcely frame a Polynesian word, much less

an English one. She could only stare wildly. On a venture Stephanie

repeated the question in French, then in Italian, then Celeste shook her

head.

"She is not of the south, not Latin, mademoiselle," she said; whereupon

Stephanie, summoning the remains of a brief schooling in the harsh

tongue, repeated the question in very indifferent German.

There was no answer. That exhausted the linguistic possibilities of the

cabin. Presently the steward appeared with broth, which the doctor had

ordered. The two women, social differences more or less laid aside with

this new and interesting plaything, had meanwhile covered the nakedness

of the poor girl, who was entirely submissive and unresisting. in their

hands, with one of Stephanie's daintiest and most beautiful night robes.

Save for the grass or fiber petticoat of the Polynesian, with an

occasional grass mat about her shoulders, Truda had never been so

completely dressed before. She was scarcely dressed in that filmy,

diaphanous adornment; but by comparison it seemed to her that she was

strangely and fully clothed. The lace and linen and silk had a strange

feeling to her, yet she was woman enough to delight in the beauty of the

garment, to marvel childishly at its color, its softness. She lifted

her lovely arm and stared at the short sleeves.

A thought struck Stephanie. At a word from her Celeste brought from her

toilet case a silver mirror. Without explaining, she suddenly held it

before Truda's eyes. The girl stared, screamed, threw up her hands.

There had not been a still pool on the whole island. She had never seen

herself before. She was frightened, but Stephanie, a little repentant,

reassured her. She held the glass before her own face, so that Truda

could look and see the reflection. She took the girl's hand and put it

upon the glassy surface and then she put the mirror back in Truda's

hand.

Mindful at last of the doctor's orders that the castaway should have

sleep and rest, Stephanie and Celeste left her, carefully closing the

door of the cabin behind them, and, worn out, Truda fell asleep, the

mirror lying by her side, reflecting a very pretty picture indeed.

Now, Beekman was in a very much worse condition than Truda. He had done

the fighting. Truda had been a more or less passive instrument in his

arms during that horrible struggle with the tidal wave. Not only had

his been the physical strain, but the mental as well. It is true that

Truda had not been without her share of that mental strain after Beekman

lapsed into unconsciousness a second time and presently grew delirious.

It was Truda who had held him on the wreck of the boat during the night,

who had kept him from sinking, and who had repaid him in this way for

her life, which she owed entirely to him. It was Truda who had seen the

ship in the growing dawn, who had made the signals which Beekman could

never have made. Had it not been for Truda's erect position on her

knees, the watchers on the ship might never have seen the wrecked boat

with its human freightage.

In addition to all that he had gone through, when Beekman had been

slammed against the boat by a wave his right arm had been severely

injured. It was obvious to Dr. Welch and the others that Beekman was in

bad condition. The physician made a very thorough examination of him.

His eyes were open, his lips muttered unintelligible things from time to

time, but he was obviously not in possession of his reason. He knew

none of them and could tell no coherent story. That right arm,

especially, attracted the doctor's attention. The skin was scraped and

torn from its upper half. There was one long bruise. But for the

antiseptic effects of the salt water it probably would have been in

worse condition than it was. Fortunately, the numbness and pain were

caused from muscle strain and muscle bruise, for it was found that no

bones were broken. Physically, so far as his bones were concerned,

Beekman, like Truda, was intact.

"I don't know what happened to them," said Dr. Welch. "They must have

been caught in that wave somehow. They have both had a terrible

battering."

"This is Mr. Beekman," said Maynard.

"What, the man we have been seeking?"

"The same."

"Well, by Heaven!" exclaimed the physician. He recovered himself in a

moment. "I think we'll have him all right in a day or two. That's a

nasty scrape he got on the right arm. The flesh is torn nearly to the

bone, but the salt water has helped it, and as soon as it heals he will

be all right. He is suffering now from fever brought on by the

exposure. I have no doubt he saved that woman, and for a man to bring

himself, let alone another human being, through a tidal wave like

that--well, what he wants now is food, sleep, and complete rest. If you

gentlemen will turn him over to me, I'll look after him, and when he

wakes up, I'll guarantee he will be able to tell you all about it."

The doctor's advice was good. There was confidence in his bearing and

in his words, which carried conviction to the two men. They withdrew

and sat down together in the cabin, while the doctor, summoning his mate

and a steward, busied himself with his patient.

"Well," said Maynard, in anything but a joyful manner, "our cruise has

been a success."

"In so far as finding Beekman," was the equally melancholy answer, "but

if the yacht sinks we won't have bettered his condition appreciably."

"No, of course, not," returned Maynard, thoughtfully. "Yet, I have great

confidence in Captain Weatherby. I shan't give up hope until I feel her

sinking under us."

Harnash nodded.

"The only thing to be decided now is, shall we tell Stephanie?" he went

on.

"Tell me what?" asked the girl, coming into the room and overhearing the

last words.

"I--er--" Harnash hesitated. "About our castaways, the man we picked

up--"

"Is he alive yet? Will he live?"

"Dr. Welch guarantees it," answered her father. "He has been badly

buffeted, his arm is cut and bruised, and he is prostrated from physical

and nervous strain."

"Is he conscious yet?"

"No, but Welch thinks he will be when he wakes up. How about your

patient?"

"She's all right. She's conscious and Dr. Welch says that she only

needs nourishment and rest. She's asleep now, I imagine."

"Who is she? What is she?" asked her father.

"She didn't say a word. She must be a Polynesian, although she looks

strangely like a European, especially since we clothed her for the

night."

"Didn't she say anything at all?"

"Not a word. She seemed frightened. On a wild venture I tried her in

English, Italian, French, and even German. She made no response, yet she

seemed to understand. Incidentally, she's one of the most beautiful

girls I ever looked at."

The two men stared at each other.

"Didn't your man say anything at all?" asked Stephanie, no suspicion at

all in her mind.

"Not a thing. He muttered continuously and more or less unintelligibly,

but he is not sane yet," answered her father.

"Does he look like a South Sea islander?"

"He isn't one."

"What is he, then?"

The two men looked at each other again. Neither answered the question.

Stephanie stared, greatly surprised, and not in the least understanding.

"Why don't you answer? What is the mystery?" she asked, obviously

somewhat annoyed by their inexplicable hesitancy.

"He is an American," observed Maynard, slowly.

"It's Beekman," said Harnash.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*THEY COMFORT EACH OTHER*

The three seekers after Beekman were spared the necessity for immediate

decision as to the telling of the story they had come so far to relate,

for Dr. Welch came from the cabin on the heels of Harnash's startling

revelation and reported that the patient was already quite composed and

that he would soon be asleep. He guaranteed that he would awaken

refreshed, in his right mind, and, save for the wound in his right arm,

as well as ever. More careful examination disclosed that the wound was

more superficial than otherwise. It would yield rapidly to treatment,

the surgeon declared. Then having looked at his other patient, and

finding her also fast asleep, Dr. Welch discreetly left the trio to

their own devices.

"Of course," said Stephanie, relentlessly, "as soon as possible he will

have to be told that our engagement is broken, and why."

"Yes," added Harnash, mournfully, "and as soon as he wakes up I shall

tell him that I alone am responsible for his whole sorry plight."

"On the contrary," put in Maynard, sagely, "while I have no doubt that

Welch is right, that Beekman will be much better when he does come to,

yet he won't be completely himself. It takes more than a few hours of

sleep to recover from such an experience as he must have passed through,

and that torn arm is going to give him some trouble, at any rate. How

he is going to receive both announcements no one can tell."

"He has a just right to be angry with me," said Stephanie.

"And much more with me," confessed Harnash.

There was a community of responsibility and blame, which, if anything

were necessary, bound the two lovers more closely together than before,

and, in answer to a common impulse, a human craving for sympathy, they

approached each other to supplement invisible commiseration with

something more tangible. Mr. Maynard looked away while George kissed

Stephanie softly. When Maynard turned his head back they were standing

side by side, while George was supporting Stephanie, who really needed

no physical assistance whatever, by clasping her firmly about her waist.

"I never appreciated before as I do now what an infernal scoundrel I was

and what a dastardly thing I did," said Harnash, in bitter self-scorn.

Stephanie was too honest and too clear eyed not to realize the truth of

his words. She was too acutely conscious, however, of a certain share

in his guilt, at least constructively, and too much in love to let him

affect her in the least degree, except, perhaps, to fill her heart with

compassion and tenderness for her lover at the terrible task imposed

upon him. She patted the hand upon her waist and nestled a little

closer to him, if that were possible.

"We won't go into that any more," she began, gently. "It was awful, as I

have always said, but it was as much my fault as yours, and you have

done everything you could to atone."

Harnash sighed deeply.

"He may not forgive me for all that," he said, doubtfully; "I don't see

how he can."

"He must when he knows how you have repented and what you have done

since then," continued Stephanie, firmly. "Why, if it hadn't been for

you and the sailors, father and I never would have been here, would we,

father?"

Mr. Maynard had his own views as to that, but he saw no reason for

obtruding then upon these two lovers. With wise discretion and ready

tact he nodded acquiescently.

"And there is one thing," went on Harnash, repeating himself, "that he

cannot possibly condone."

"And what is that?" asked Stephanie, swiftly.

"The loss of you."

"Well, he can't blame you for that, at least. That's my fault entirely.

I never should have promised to marry him in the first place. I never

should have continued to let him think I would marry him in the second

place. As soon as I found out I loved you I should have told him. If I

had, what trouble and sorrow might have been avoided."

This time it was Harnash who attempted to comfort her, tritely enough,

too.

"You acted for the best, of course," he said. "You were the soul of

honor."

"Yes, I suppose so. But unless one acts in the right way, the fact that

one's desires are for the best is of little moment; besides," she went

on, after a little pause, which no one broke, so weighty and grave were

the responsibilities and possibilities of the situation, "I don't

believe he ever really cared very much for me, after all."

"It's impossible," protested Harnash, with a conviction which was a

delight to her soul, "that anybody could come in close and intimate

association with you without--caring."

"You say that because you love me, but lots of other men have known me

very well, and--"

"It strikes me that the conversation is becoming rather purposeless,"

interrupted Mr. Maynard, a little impatiently. He had quite forgotten

that the airy nothings of lovers true are much the most purposeful

things which can engage their attention, when they are in the mood. "It

is settled that we shall not tell him until he is better able to sustain

the shock. For one thing, if what Captain Weatherby fears comes to

pass, we shall all be so busy saving our lives that these love affairs

will be of little moment." Again Mr. Maynard blinked the fact that love

affairs are of infinitely greater moment to lovers even than the saving

of life. "Of course," he went on, "whether he is still in love with

Stephanie or not, Beekman is going to be frightfully indignant and

resentful over the outrage, of which he was the victim. But we knew that

when we started. We knew the engagement was broken. We knew that you

and George had to face the music, Stephanie, and now that the time has

come, face it, that's all. As for me, I'm going on deck." He paused at

the foot of the companion ladder and looked back at the other two. "I

wonder what sort of a relationship subsists between Beekman and that

woman we picked up with him," he added as he ascended.

"I wonder, too," said Stephanie, turning to Harnash, a gleam of surprise

in her eyes.

"It would solve everything beautifully if he had fallen in love with

her," returned Harnash, optimistically.

"What, Derrick Beekman in love with a savage!"

"Well--er--not exactly in the way in which I love you."

"Do you mean to tell me he would fall in love any other way with any

respectable woman?" flashed out the girl, changing her tactics to the

great bewilderment of the more conventional man.

"Well, I don't wish to say anything about this island person, of course,

but--"

"George," said the girl, "she's as beautiful as a dream, much more

beautiful than I am."

This was a statement which Harnash could not allow to pass

uncontradicted, and he denied it in the most effective way, which

interrupted further speech, if only for a moment.

"Nonsense, impossible!" exclaimed he, when the kiss was finished.

"Did you get a glimpse of her?"

"I only saw a limp, drenched figure being hoisted aboard. I noticed she

was whiter than the people of the islands we have visited."

"Why, her skin, save for the touch of the sun, is whiter and finer than

mine. Her figure, which has obviously never known the restraints

of--of--civilization is absolutely perfect. Her hair is like spun gold,

and there's enough of it to cover half her beautiful little body."

"What you say is very interesting," observed Harnash, indifferently,

"but it doesn't particularly concern me. The only type of woman that

appeals to me is your type."

He emphasized this statement in truly appropriate, if somewhat

conventional, fashion, and Stephanie received statement and emphasis

alike with obvious satisfaction.

"There's another thing," she went on, when this second kiss had also run

its course, "she doesn't look in any way--form or color or feature--like

a South Sea islander. In these weary months of cruising and visiting

island after island we have seen a great many, and not one of them has

been as she."

"What does she look like?"

"A European. Our kind of people. She has white race somehow stamped

all over her."

"Do you think she can be European?"

"Who knows? She didn't answer to any European language at my command.

There wasn't a thing on her save the remains of a belt that seemed to

have held some kind of a native skirt."

"After coming through that tidal wave the surprise is not that she had

nothing on, but that they were alive at all. Beekman was in about the

same case. Indeed, I don't think he had anything on, either. Probably

the suit he wore when he went adrift was pretty old and could not stand

much weathering. It was a happy thought of yours to have me bring some

of Beekman's clothes with us in case we did find him. He couldn't have

worn your father's or even mine now. He seems to have grown broader

somehow. He looked as though he were a head taller than I am and he

seemed in splendid bodily condition."

"The girl is shorter than I," said Stephanie, "but on a pinch she can

wear my clothes."

"If she's an islander you'll find it difficult to get her into--er--many

of the things civilized people wear."

"I shan't try," said Stephanie, smiling at her lover's sudden hesitancy.

"I've got all sorts of negligees and kimonos that she can wear

without--"

"So you can break her into the harness of civilization gradually,"

laughed George.

"Yes, including shoes."

"I'm sure she'd never get your dainty slippers on," went on the fatuous

lover, and Stephanie, looking down with him at her small, exquisitely

shod feet, agreed with him.

"Her feet, while they are not large, are larger than mine, but

beautifully shaped, and I dare say they have never been bound up in a

shoe."

"I feel that this is to be our last happy day," said Harnash,

irrelevantly.

"We'll hope not," said Stephanie. "Indeed, I'm sure it won't be."

And so they babbled on, forgetful for the moment of all the facts of the

case and the demands of the situation, not the least of which was

Captain Weatherby's firm conviction that unless he got the ship ashore

in a very short time, they would be adrift on whatever makeshift support

they could compass.

It came into Harnash's mind, as he thought of what was laid upon him,

that such a catastrophe might not be the worst thing to which to look

forward. At least, he and Stephanie would die together, and if

contrition, sincere repentance, and an earnest purpose of confession and

amendment availed, they would be together in some future, where there

might be no giving in marriage, but where there would be love and joy

and the communion of soul with soul in ways scarcely to be apprehended

by poor humanity.

*CHAPTER XXIX*

*THE ISLAND HAVEN*

The two patients, aided thereto by the doctor's wise regimen and

skillful prescription, slept quietly on through the long day. Celeste

watched the maiden most of the time, but she was relieved on occasion by

Stephanie, who did not tire of studying the innocent, charming, and

beautiful face and figure of the girl, so quietly sleeping; the mirror

which had so frightened and fascinated her lying near to the cheek that

it so beautifully reflected.

Harnash and Maynard visited Beekman's cabin from time to time, but his

slumber was even more profound. The doctor found that the nascent fever

had been broken, and that nature, good health, splendid constitution,

and the medicine were doing exactly what he had prophesied they would.

It was late in the afternoon when the yacht drew near the island. The

very best charts of the South Seas were in the chart room, and Captain

Weatherby had mastered all they told about this unknown, unvisited

island. He was greatly surprised, when the sluggish ship drew near

enough for those on deck to make things out, to find that the formidable

barrier, which was reported on every chart to be continuous, was

obviously broken. They could see the white water above the encircling

reef on either side, but right in front, opposite what appeared to be a

deep circular harbor, embayed and surrounded by enormous and towering

cliffs, the sea ran smooth!

Of course, the encircling reef might continue below the surface without

showing above, but after carefully studying the smooth water through the

glass, Captain Weatherby did not think so. Furthermore, an inspection

of the cliffs that surrounded the harbor showed wide differences of

color. A part of the cliff wall was dark and weather-stained, as if it

had mellowed for ages under the assaults of sun and wind and sea. Other

parts were lighter and the wall sharper. Points of rock freshly jagged

and serrated, as if the erosions of time had not softened them, rose on

one side where a brook now tumbled down a rather gentle incline from the

upland to the harbor.

"What do you make of that, sir?" asked the captain of Mr. Maynard, who

was also examining the island with his own powerful glass.

"If I know anything about it," was the answer, "it is freshly broken

rock. See how much lighter and sharper it is to starboard than that

black towering mass to port."

"Exactly."

"What would have broken it?"

"Perhaps it was the earthquake."

"It is more than likely."

"There is still argument about these tidal waves, sir, but the consensus

of the best opinion is that they are caused by subsea earthquake shocks.

Such a shock may have struck the island, broken the barrier, torn down

the cliff wall."

"Is this the island that has sheltered Beekman?"

"Must have been. There is no other hereabouts."

"It will be uninhabited, then."

"That's as may be," answered the old sailor, lifting his glance to take

in the upland, which was now clearly visible through the enormous rift,

which looked as if it might have been made by an avalanche or landslide,

and down which the tumbling, dashing stream of water sparkled like

silver in the light of the declining sun.

"I don't see any smoke or any evidence of life," observed Maynard,

following his example.

"If the charts are true, this island hasn't been visited in the memory

of man, and a ship as near as this one is would be a sight to arouse the

curiosity of any native. They ought to be on the cliffs watching for us

if there are any," said the captain.

"On the other hand, they might think it is some kind of god or devil and

be in hiding."

"Well, we will soon know," said the captain.

"What do you mean to do?"

"I'm going straight through that dark space where the barrier is broken,

and, if the way is clear, right into that harbor. Off to starboard

there's a stretch of sand. I'll beach the ship there. It is high tide.

We will go on easily. Then I will send a diver down and see what is to

be done. Have you anything to suggest, Mr. Maynard?" he continued,

turning to the owner.

"Nothing. The job is yours," answered Maynard.

"If I had a boat I'd send her in ahead to take soundings, but as it is

we must depend upon ourselves. For'ard there," he shouted, "Mr.

Gersey?"

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Let two of the best men take soundings with the hand leads."

By this time everybody on the yacht was on deck, except the castaways

and their watchers. Two leadsmen on either side leaned far out from the

ship and as she swept slowly through the somewhat narrow opening between

the jagged jaws of the barrier on either hand, they began to heave their

leads. The water shoaled rapidly, but not alarmingly. Indeed, bottom

was the thing that Captain Weatherby wanted most of all to feel under

his water-laden ship. The engines were stopped. The ship under its own

momentum moved slowly across the lagoon into the smooth, still waters of

the great cylindrical harbor. The deep silence was broken only by the

rippling splash of the bow wave and by the long-drawn musical calls of

the leadsmen in the chains. So she drifted through the entrance beyond

the wall over which Beekman had so often clambered, and the whole

wonderful harbor burst into view.

Beekman would not have known one side of it, for one side of it was

gone. The rocks still rose as of old upon the other side. The

heaven-kissing cliff where he had first seen Truda in the glory of the

morning, still stood, and the unbroken rocks ran around the left hand,

but the other side was changed. Where the brook had plunged over

precipitous cliffs it now rolled down a long, easy slope, terribly

broken, to be sure, but quite different from the mighty rampart of old.

The narrow beach whereon he had lain had somehow been lifted up and

extended out at a very gentle angle far into the harbor. The eye of the

captain took it all in. There was his resting place. His hand sought

the Chadburn signal. The throb of the engines broke the silence. The

man at the wheel put the helm to port. The sluggish yacht gathered

additional way, swung heavily to starboard, and finally slipped through

the shallow seas, glided up on the sloping sand, and came to a dead

stop.

Providence had favored the sailor, as it often does and has done. The

_Stephanie_ was safe, exactly in the position in which her captain

desired her to be. He turned to Mr. Maynard.

"The tide is at full flood. We are fast aground. If we can't make her

seaworthy now, I'll forfeit my head."

His eyes sparkled. He gave orders for carrying out anchors to moor the

ship, for rigging tackle, for getting the diver's uniform ready for an

under-water inspection of the hull; at the same time he directed the

capable engineers, now that there was no more steam needed for the

engine, to turn every ounce of power into the pumps, and, if possible,

to rig others temporarily to clear the ship of water and keep it down,

hoping that perhaps they could come at the leak from within as well as

from without.

It was so late in the evening before the ship was safely moored that it

was not practicable for any of her people to go ashore that night.

Captain Weatherby thought that at low tide the next day the sandy beach

would be largely uncovered and with a very little ferriage they could

make most of the journey on foot.

There was not the slightest evidence below in the sumptuous cabin that

night at dinner of the sorry condition of the yacht. Her fittings and

appointments had not been damaged. The napery and silver and glass were

shining as usual under the electric light. The service was as perfect,

the food as delectable, as if the ship was not lying on a sand bank

embayed in a cavernous harbor in front of a deserted island, leaking; a

ship which they might or might not be able to render seaworthy.

It was characteristic of the two men and of the young woman that they

all dressed for dinner as was their custom. And although Beekman and his

story and theirs were uppermost in everybody's mind, because there was

nothing new that could be said about either under the circumstances,

they talked at dinner of other things entirely--the ship, the

probabilities of Captain Weatherby's getting control of the leak and

making the necessary repairs, the island they would inspect tomorrow,

the wonderful adventure they had gone through. In the middle of the

dinner they heard voices raised in the cabin in which Beekman had been

sleeping. They recognized his own deep tones expostulating with the

steward; they even caught the sound of a little struggle. In her

agitation, Stephanie arose from the table as the door opened and

Beekman, clad in a set of his own pajamas, stood staring at the party.

"Stephanie!" he exclaimed. "Thank God!" He made a step forward. "Just

as soon as the steward told me the name of the yacht and her owner, I

couldn't remain in the cabin. What happy fortune brought you here?"

"We've been searching for you. Thank God, we've found you!"

"And Truda?" asked Beekman, his eye taking in the cabin and overlooking

Harnash, who sat on the opposite side, his face as white as linen,

fingering the tablecloth nervously. "Truda?" he raised his voice.

Truda was awake. At the sound of the voice of the man she loved she

brushed by the scandalized Celeste, and, clad only in Stephanie's

nightgown of diaphanous linen, she appeared in the doorway with extended

arms. Beekman, who seemed strangely oblivious to the fact that he too

was not arrayed in clothes appropriate to a dinner party, instantly

crossed the cabin and took her hand.

"This," he said, "is Miss Truda Van Rooy, two hundred years ago of

Amsterdam, Holland, and--"

"And today?" asked Stephanie, bewildered beyond measure and scarce

knowing what she asked.

"Of the island at which your yacht has sought harbor."

*CHAPTER XXX*

*REVELATIONS AND WITHHOLDINGS*

The only acknowledgment Miss Truda Van Rooy vouchsafed to this amazing

introduction was to sink to her knees by the side of Beekman and press

her pretty lips to his hand. The introduction and the action startled

Stephanie almost beyond the power of expression, but her surprise was

instantly lost in another consideration.

Miss Truda Van Rooy on her native heath, clad only in a Polynesian

petticoat and her native modesty, was entirely unexceptionably clothed,

and no one would give a second thought to any possible deficiency in her

raiment; but Miss Truda Van Rooy in the luxurious and very up-to-date

cabin of the yacht, her delicate figure clearly discernible through

French lingerie, was an entirely different proposition. Everyone, even

Beekman, was acutely conscious of the situation except the girl herself.

If she thought about it at all, it would be with a sense of discomfort

begot by unusual draperies. For the rest, she made a lovely picture.

She had rebraided her hair, and Celeste's deft fingers had given a

civilized touch to the twisted locks so gloriously crowning her lovely

head. Celeste, herself, more scandalized or at least less restrained in

her horror, stood in the doorway of the cabin, a picture of nervous

dismay. Stephanie, realizing the situation at last, was quicker to act.

She drew Truda to her feet, interposed her own person between the girl

and the others, and sought gently to force her back to the room whence

she had come; but Truda opposed this urging with a sudden fierce vigor,

despite her smaller stature and slighter build, against which the

American girl was more or less helpless. An unseemly struggle was only

prevented by a word from Beekman.

"Go with her; I am in no danger," he said.

"And who, may I ask, is she?" asked Mr. Maynard as the three women

disappeared in the cabin.

"She is the last descendant of a shipload of Dutch soldiers, sailors,

and traders who were cast away on this island two hundred and fifty

years ago, together with some Polynesians they had picked up and who had

lived here ever since; 'the world forgetting--by the world forgot,'" he

added, the quotation being so exquisitely apt, although he was not in a

poetic mood.

"And her relation to you, if I may ask?"

"I have held her in as much respect as I have held your daughter, Mr.

Maynard," returned Beekman haughtily, for the question irked him

exceedingly, although he could not fail to recognize that it was natural

and indeed inevitable. "Until the earthquake and the tidal wave

yesterday," continued Beekman, "the barrier reef completely surrounded

the island. The people on it lived in a sort of cup, crater of an old

volcano, I think; very fertile and beautiful, but quite hidden from the

sea, access to it from the beach being extremely difficult, almost

impossible. The earthquake changed all that." Beekman had noted

through his cabin ports the situation of the yacht and the havoc wrought

by the awful catastrophe. "Tomorrow I will show you the island and we

will seek for survivors of the catastrophe. Have any been seen?"

"None," answered Maynard.

"Perhaps they have all perished," said Harnash, forcing himself to

speak.

"A fitting end for an isolation of two centuries and a half," said

Beekman mournfully.

"And how did you come to the island?"

"It's a long story," answered Beekman. "I'll tell it to you when we are

all assembled. Meanwhile, if I could get some clothes--"

"You have only to choose from your own, Derrick," said Harnash. "At

Stephanie's suggestion, when we started this search for you, we brought

along some of your clothes."

"Good. And this beard--"

"My man will fix you up," said Maynard. "I'll send him to you. Are you

hungry?"

"The steward has been feeding me what he thinks is proper."

"And your arm?"

"Sore and stiff, but it will be all right in a day or two. I suppose I

should have stayed in the berth, but when I heard the name of the yacht

and caught the sound of your voices--well, you know. I'll be back just

as quickly as I can dress."

When Beekman returned to the cabin half an hour later he was completely

metamorphosed. He laughed at his own fancy, but from the very complete

wardrobe they had brought him he had chosen to attire himself in the

same sort of a conventional dinner suit as Maynard and Harnash were

wearing. The thick beard and mustache which had so worried him had

disappeared under the deft manipulations of Mr. Maynard's man. Clean

shaven, clothed, in his right mind, one might have thought that the

adventures of the last year had passed over his head without a trace.

For a moment poor Truda was hard put to recognize in this new man the

one she had loved and who had won her heart. On her part the change was

even more striking, albeit in a different direction. She was now

completely covered up. With exquisite taste, Stephanie and Celeste had

arrayed her in a soft, rich silken garment of mandarin blue

fantastically embroidered in delicate gold thread, a product of one of

the most famous looms of ancient China. It was confined about her waist

by a sash of cloth of gold, and fell in loose folds to her feet. The

two women had got stockings on her feet, but the ordinary slipper was

impossible. Soft footwear of Turkish leather met the situation. The

broad mandarin sleeves of the coat, or kimono, fell back when she lifted

her hands, revealing her exquisitely proportioned rounded arm. The

garment was cut low at the throat and held by a brooch of pearls, and,

to please her fancy, as one adorns a doll or child, Stephanie's famous

pearl necklace was clasped about Truda's warm, brown neck. From this

mass of blue and gold and white her lovely head with its golden crown

rose magnificently. Poor Truda had been as clay in the hands of the

potter. She had suffered everything silently without resistance. It had

been his will and she was his property. She had possessed all the

beauty of wild and lovely nature before. Without losing much of that

appeal, she now exhibited it in conjunction with an ancient oriental

civilization, albeit to occidental eyes half barbaric.

Looking not unlike a lamb dressed for the slaughter, Truda sat by the

side of Stephanie, who seemed to the untutored eyes of the semi-savage

not unlike a goddess. The table had been cleared of all save the

after-dinner coffee and the decanters. Later, Beekman found himself

amazed at the ease with which he took up the customs of civilization and

its refinements after so long and so violent a break therewith. For the

moment he could only stare at Truda, and she returned the stare with

interest. Who was this radiant creature to whom the delights of color

had been added? he asked himself. Who was this godlike figure of man

in the awesome and yet enhancing raiment? she questioned. It was not

until Beekman smiled and spoke to her, using instinctively the familiar

Polynesian dialect, that she could catch her breath and feel her heart

resume its beat. He used the Polynesian because somehow it was more

intimate, because he could say in it what he liked to her without the

others being privy to his communication; and, finally, because he

instinctively divined that in her agitation, which was obvious, her

birth-language, which she had used from childhood, would be more

soothing and agreeable to her. Naturally, his first question was as to

her condition.

"How do you feel after all we have been through?"

"Well; and you?" said the girl, and all who listened so closely never

suspected that Truda knew any other language than that Beekman used, and

they were amazed at the music in her voice, the soft syllables falling

through her lips entrancingly.

"I'm all right, save for this bruised arm, and that be well in a day or

so."

Then Truda herself struck at him with a question.

"This beautiful woman. You know her?"

"Yes."

That seemed perfectly natural to Truda. She had no idea of the size of

the world. All of these godlike beings must know one another as a

matter of course.

"And you love her?"

Beekman smiled.

"I did once, but not now."

"Is she the woman you told me of on the island?"

Beekman nodded.

"If you don't take me and keep me," said Truda, suddenly passionate, her

face flaming, "I shall die. You might better have let me go in the

waves yesterday."

Beekman crossed the cabin and stopped by her side. He laid his hand on

her head and turned her face up to him.

"You're the one woman for me, Truda," he said simply. Then realizing his

obligations to the rest, he turned to them. "You will be anxious to

know what we were talking about. I asked her how she was, and she told

me she was well and asked in her turn for my welfare."

It was obvious to Stephanie at least that his translation by no means

represented the sum total of the conversation that had passed between

the two, but having her own ends to serve, like a wise woman, she gave

no voice to her suspicions.

"Now, if you feel like it, we should like to hear the whole story," said

Maynard.

"To begin with," said Beekman, "as George has probably told you, I guess

we had a glass too many on that last night in New York, although we

really drank so little that I have been inclined to the belief that

there must have been foul play somewhere. At any rate, all I really

know is that I woke up twenty-four hours or so later in the forecastle

of an old-fashioned sailing ship called the _Susquehanna_."

"We learned that much ourselves," said Mr. Maynard. He pressed an

electric button on the bulkhead by his side, and to the steward who

answered he directed the boatswain to be summoned. "Just a moment,

Beekman," he said; "we have an old friend of yours aboard, and here he

is," he added as the weather-beaten, grizzled head of James Gersey was

cautiously projected around the door-jamb. "Come in, Bo's'n," he

exclaimed heartily.

The next instant Beekman caught him by the hand.

"How did you come here, Gersey?" he cried, "and how are Templin and the

rest of the men?"

"Templin an' some others of us shipped aboard this yacht, Mr. Maynard

makin' the proposition an' Captain Weatherby bein' agreeable. We wanted

to hunt you up, an' bein' as we'd seed the last of you when we set you

adrift, 'twas thought we know'd more about you than anybody else an'

could be the best help."

"Wonder of wonders!" exclaimed Beekman. "I guess your story comes

before mine, Mr. Maynard."

"Well, to make it short," said Harnash, after a glance from Maynard,

"the _Susquehanna_ caught fire and was burned at sea. Captain Fish went

down with her, refusing to leave the bridge. The mate's boat was lost.

Gersey's boat was picked up and brought into Honolulu, and from him we

learned the whole story of your adventures on the ship. As soon as we

heard them we decided to search for you, in the hope that you might have

landed on some of these islands, or have been cast away, which has

proved to be the case, and here we are."

"You know the unfortunate cause of my leaving the ship?" asked Beekman,

his brow darkening.

"Of course; we have the log book of the _Susquehanna_."

"And I must face a charge of murder when I get back?"

"You needn't worry about that," said Maynard quickly. "Manuel made a

deposition saying it was in self-defense. The testimony of the men was

added. You'll never hear from it again."

"Thank God for that!" said Beekman fervently.

"Go on with your story."

Rapidly and graphically Beekman put them in possession of the wondrous

romance of which he had been a part. Without reserve he told them

everything that had happened, except one thing--his love for Truda. He

suppressed that most carefully, and Truda, who sat silently listening,

her wits sharpened by love and jealousy, understanding much more than he

or anyone dreamed, noted that fact with a horrible sinking of the heart.

In her simplicity she could not believe that anyone could love her after

seeing Stephanie.

Now, Beekman purposely left out of the conversation that feature of his

life. His relations with Stephanie were still, to all intents and

purposes, what they had been. As he reflected upon it while dressing,

it seemed to him that she had offered him the greatest evidence of

devotion to him by coming on the cruise to search for him. That any

other motive was back of her action naturally did not occur to him. He

inferred that she was more in love with him than he had dreamed. He

recognized that her presence added to her claim upon him. It was a

situation fraught with difficulty.

It was evidence to his own heart of the depth and sincerity of his

feeling for Truda that the presence of Stephanie only disquieted him,

and that even her lovely perfection did not move him one bit. He could

not, however, as he was a gentleman, blurt out the fact that he no

longer loved her, did not want to marry her, and would not marry her.

Hence the constraint and restraint with which he told the story. It was

a tale sufficiently thrilling in itself, such as Sindbad the Sailor

might have told to some auditory in the _Arabian Nights_, and their

arrival at that very island after that tremendous, titanic convulsion of

nature which had brought them together, was not the least wonderful

feature of the whole situation.

When he was finished they questioned him. Especially were they

interested in the history of the people of the _Good Intent_, whom they

had followed into the harbor after a lapse of two hundred and fifty

years.

"I have no doubt that the earthquake shock, which was sufficient to tear

away one side of the island wall and this harbor, as you have seen--for,

before, every side was as sheer as the side off to port yonder--has

wrought terrible damage to the settlement; but we shall find that out

tomorrow."

"Meanwhile," observed Maynard, "I think we have had quite enough

excitement for the day."

"And our interest in your story has caused us to forget the awful strain

you have sustained, to say nothing of this dear girl here," said

Stephanie.

She patted Truda's hand as she spoke, and smiled at her kindly. She had

hoped that in Truda lay the solution of the tangled relations between

Beekman and herself, and her natural kindliness of heart was thereby

intensified. And, besides, with a thought for her lover, she was glad

for a postponement of the inevitable disclosure.

"We must all turn in," chimed in the wretched Harnash, thankful for a

further respite of a few hours. "Captain Weatherby will want us out of

the ship in the morning, anyway."

"Exactly," said Maynard, with the same thought as the others. "After

another night's rest you will be in better condition to show us

everything we are so anxious to see."

"Before we separate," continued Harnash, "I want to tell you, Derrick,

that our business affairs are in the best condition. On your behalf and

my own, I have entered into a business relation with Mr. Maynard. We

have been unusually successful, and our own investments have about

doubled, I think."

"That's good," said Beekman.

"I'll take you in with me and Harnash, who has already proved

invaluable," said Mr. Maynard, "on the same terms, Derrick, so your

future will be assured."

This was good news to Beekman, but it was bad news, too, for it added to

the obligations of the engagement. He put a good face upon the matter,

however, and thanked Maynard cordially.

"Now we'll bid you good-night," said Stephanie, rising, Truda following

her example.

She had extended her hand to Beekman. He had made no previous effort to

kiss or embrace her, of course, although their engagement would have

abundantly warranted him in such affectionate greetings. Now he took

her hand, however, and kissed it tenderly. Poor little Truda lifted her

face up toward him in turn, but the necessities of the situation made

Beekman turn away, which added to the girl's heart-break, for she could

not know of the pang his refusal gave him. She could not understand why

the parting that night was so different from other partings which had

taken place on the island. He had always kissed her before, why not

now? It must be because of this new and glorious woman. She had felt,

after the terrible hazards they had survived, that nothing could

possibly come between them; but that something had was obvious. She

stifled her feelings with the stoicism of a savage, which is exactly

paralleled by the repression of civilization, and turned and followed

Stephanie to her cabin.

She refused the bed in the cabin. She even shook her head at the

luxurious sofa opposite, which was offered her. She piled some cushions

on the floor, divested herself of her clothing, as was her primitive

habit, drew a rug over her as a concession to the civilization she was

dimly beginning to comprehend, and at once feigned sleep. So also did

Stephanie, and the two women lay awake a long time, waiting with anxious

hearts for the day.

Of the two, Truda was the sadder, because she thought she was losing her

lover; while Stephanie, in spite of her anxiety, was confident that

things would work out right in the end for all of them.

*CHAPTER XXXI*

*VI ET ARMIS*

The next morning Captain Weatherby was glad indeed to be rid of his

passengers. His divers had already found the leak. It was now his

opinion that the broken plate could be replaced and the leak made tight,

or controlled, until they could get to a dry dock in some civilized

port, without careening the ship. If all went well, in two days the

_Stephanie_ would be ready to leave the island. Of course they would

have to get her off the sand, but she had been so beached that with the

numerous crew she carried the captain could improvise a cofferdam and

dig her out, if necessary, although that would naturally be the last

resort. It was probable that ground tackle and her own extra-powerful

engines would do the trick. Meantime there was much work for all hands,

and the idlers were better away.

After breakfast, which was a trying meal for Truda, since she had no

knowledge whatever of the utensils and equipment of civilization, the

two women and the three men, accompanied by Dr. Welch, who had

pronounced both patients well on the way to recovery, but who thought

best to keep them under observation while he visited and examined the

island from a scientist's point of view, were ferried over on an

improvised raft to the strand, whence they found it not a difficult

climb to the upland.

Horrible indeed had been the destruction by the storm that had followed

the earthquake. What had been a paradise was now devastated. A few of

the animals were still alive, but not a single human being was seen. The

little settlement was in ruins. Every house had been leveled to the

ground. A deep crevice had opened in the basic rock. It ran underneath

the ruin of the church. Beneath the great heaps of stone on either side

of this gulf they could see the crushed bodies of the islanders. It was

easy to reconstruct the scene and to realize what had happened. The

storm had given them plenty of warning. It was of so unusual a

character that they had had an abundance of time to choose their places

of shelter. Moved by such a mental stimulus, as can easily be imagined,

they had chosen to assemble in the taboo house. The taboo had been

broken, anyway. The god was angry with them. This was the form of his

punishment. What was more natural than that they should turn to him?

Perhaps they had some idea of prayer; it may be some lingering remains

of Christian faith, which would have led them to assemble in the church

in time of peril, had been added to the consciousness that the taboo was

broken. At any rate, the men, women, and children all of them had

crowded into the church. It was the largest and most substantial of all

the buildings, and the earthquake had thrown it down upon them.

The huge rift that had been opened in the island had engulfed many of

them, evidently. Whatever the case, not one of them was alive. The

rift had divided the ruin into two parts. Most of the people evidently

had remained near the door. Old Kobe's body was found in the opening in

the rail, his hand stretched out to the broken altar upon which the

mouldering cross still stood. They found the two precious books without

much difficulty, and that was all.

Truda had disappeared. She presently rejoined them, clad in her usual

way in one of the grass or fiber petticoats which she had resurrected

from one of the houses of the women which had not been completely

demolished. She had laid aside the light garments which Stephanie had

put on her, and she seemed a different woman. They noticed it, of

course, but made no comment. And now Dr. Welch, easily realizing that

the friends would rather be alone, made his excuses and wandered away,

out of hearing, at any rate, while he busied himself in observation and

interesting studies.

"I'll have Captain Weatherby send a party of men to clear this away and

give the bodies decent burial," said Maynard, breaking the solemn pause.

"That's good," observed Beekman; "I was about to suggest it."

"Well, there's nothing further to do here," said Stephanie. "Let's go

back to the yacht."

"Before we go," broke in Harnash, "I've got something to tell you,

Derrick, and the best place and time is here and now."

The moment had come!

"And I also have something to tell all of you," answered Beekman,

realizing that he must settle his affairs sooner or later, and his

natural temperament inclining him to sooner rather than later.

Stephanie knew perfectly well what Beekman had to tell. She had not

seen him and Truda together without becoming entirely aware of the state

of affairs, but Beekman had no idea of the communication Harnash

intended to make. He looked at him as he spoke. "Good God, old man,

what's the matter?" he burst out. "You're as white as the spray

yonder."

"I've a confession to make, and I want to tell you before I make it that

I do it of my own free will. After you know what I've done, you will

hardly believe that, but Mr. Maynard and Stephanie can both testify to

that."

"We can," said Maynard.

"And we do," added Stephanie.

"George, I don't know how to take this tone from you. I've always found

you strictly honorable. Your word has always been your bond. And your

friendship has been beyond price. You can't have anything very dreadful

to confess, I imagine. It can't be money, because you just told me

about the investments."

"I wish to God it were," said Harnash bitterly. "I'd rather be branded

as a thief than--"

A dawning suspicion flashed into Beekman's mind. Why had he never

thought of it before? His face changed.

"What is it?" he demanded. "Speak out."

"You wondered how you were shanghaied and I was not. Well, I--I did it."

"What?"

"I had it done, that is."

"Ah, and Woywod?"

"He was a boyhood friend. He would do anything for me. It was through

him."

"By God!" cried Beekman passionately, forgetting everything else as his

life on that hell ship came back to him, as he recalled the brutal

bullying and the miseries that he and all the other men had endured, and

that last terrible scene in the cabin, which had stained his hands with

the blood of man; and that it was in self-defense did not make the stain

any less vivid. "You--my friend--the best man--at my wedding!"

Harnash, by a magnificent display of courage, kept his head erect and

forced himself to look squarely into Beckman's eyes. Maynard watched

the two men with a curious interest as he might have watched a great

dramatic climax in a play. Stephanie was fearfully concerned, yet she

was proud of her lover, for in an utterly impossible position no man

could bear himself with more courage and more dignity than Harnash

exhibited then.

"Yes," he said, "you can't say anything to me that I haven't said to

myself. You can't characterize my conduct more bitterly than I have

done."

"Damn you," cried Beekman, his quick temper entirely uppermost, and

before anyone could say a word or interpose he leaped upon Harnash. He

had only the use of his left hand, but with that he struck him a fearful

blow on the side of his face. "When I think of all you made me suffer,"

he continued, "I could kill you."

"I call heaven to witness, and you all," cried Harnash, the blood

flaming in his cheek beneath Beekman's hand, "that I sustain this blow

not because I fear but because I merit it. You see that Beekman's right

arm is helpless; I could kill him if I would, but I deserve it." He

turned his face toward his friend. "Strike again," he said, with

sublime, almost heroic, purpose; but Beekman's hand fell.

What Harnash said was true. The two were not equally matched. Under

ordinary circumstances Beekman was the stronger, but now the advantage

was with the other man. "I couldn't strike a second time a man who won't

strike back. If you would fight me I'd kill you with one hand. Why did

you do it?"

Now it was Stephanie's turn. She interposed.

"Because I loved him."

"You?"

"Yes, I."

"And our engagement?"

"I would have carried it through. I refused to tell you the truth."

"What truth?"

"That I loved George and that he loved me."

"So you made love to my promised wife behind my back, did you?" cried

Beekman, the scorn and contempt he infused into his words fairly

scorching Harnash.

"I loved her before you did," protested the other, "but I never said a

word to her. I never sought anything from her until--until--I--"

"Until I let him see that I didn't care for you, except as a friend, and

that I did care for him," put in Stephanie deftly again.

"What then?"

"I begged that I might tell you the true facts of the case," said

Harnash.

"And again I refused," said Stephanie. "I knew that marriage was my

father's wish. It had been arranged with your father. I believed that

you loved me. There was no other way."

"And did you know that he intended to do this?" asked Beekman in his

rage.

"Now, by God, that's too much," cried Harnash. "That's an infernal

shame. You can insult me, but you can't insult her, Beekman!" He

stepped forward with clenched fist.

"Strike one blow. I beg you to do it," taunted Beekman.

But Mr. Maynard interposed between the two men and held them apart, for

now Harnash, as angry as the other, would have struck him. Beekman had

lost some of the advantage of his position by his implied charge against

the woman.

"I didn't know it," answered Stephanie quickly, "but if I had I might

have--the temptation--you didn't love me, did you?"

"I did then, but not now," answered Beekman scornfully.

"Ah," said Stephanie, quickly and greatly relieved, "I thought so."

"If you had only come frankly and told me the state of affairs, how much

trouble would have been avoided," continued Beekman.

"Yes," said Stephanie, "we see that now; but, on the other hand, you

wouldn't have won the heart of the woman you do love," she continued

boldly, staking everything on her guess.

It was the first moment in the interview that Beekman had given a

thought to Truda. Instinctively he turned to look for her. She had

been standing near by, listening. She had made out, with her imperfect

knowledge of English, only that these two men were quarreling over this

woman. It intensified her conviction that Beekman must love this

glorious woman. There was no place in his heart for her. Outside his

heart there was no life possible for her. Her people were all gone.

The island was a ruin. There was but one course left her. She stole

softly away and presently began to run.

Now, the earthquake and storm had overthrown the clump of trees which

hid the little amphitheater on the top of the cliff, still intact,

whence Truda and her forebears for so many years watched the open sea,

and the long path was clearly visible from where they stood. They could

see her bright figure, outlined against the gray rocks, running toward

the brink. Of what she would do there, no one, of course, could be

sure, but in Beekman's mind flashed a suspicion which grew to a

certainty. He forgot Stephanie; he forgot Harnash; he forgot his

wrongs--he forgot everything but that far-off flying figure!

"My God!" he cried, "she thinks I don't care. She'll throw herself over

the cliff."

Without a word, he tore over the debris-encumbered path, and without a

second's hesitation the others followed. Even Stephanie gathered up her

skirts and ran like Camilla over the ground. Dr. Welch, happening to

turn at the moment, saw them and followed also. As he ran, with deadly

fear in his heart, Beekman shouted after her.

"Truda," he cried. "Stop! for God's sake, wait!"

It was the first intimation the others had received that she understood

English. But Truda ran on. She heard his voice, indeed. She partly

comprehended his appeal, but it seemed to her that it was only in pity

that he called. She was possessed by a certain panic terror, a certain

wild jealousy, a certain horrible despair. She could never be like that

glorious creature over whom the men quarreled as men have quarreled

since time and the world began. Even if he did love her, he could never

love her long. There was a passionate abasement in the swift

comparisons she had been making since she had been brought on board the

yacht. It was no use. She must go on. And not only did her own misery

impel her flying feet, but some vivid considerations for his happiness.

She was not of his kind. She was only a savage islander. She only

realized it since she had been picked up by the yacht, because she had

never before had any standards of comparison. Thus, in spite of the

second that her heart gave to his appeal for the moment, she ran on.

Beekman stumbled and fell. He fell on his wounded arm, opening the

wound again. He lay half-stunned for a moment, and by the time he had

struggled to his feet the others had joined him. The race was lost.

Truda had won. The little group around Beekman could see clearly into

the amphitheater which Truda had entered. She stepped to the edge and

glanced down. The sheer fall of perhaps five hundred feet would kill

her instantly. It had been her purpose to fling herself from the brink

without a moment's hesitation, but, like Lot's wife, she was fain to

take one look backward, one glance of farewell.

"Oh, God!" cried Beekman, stretching out his left hand, the only one he

could move, to the little figure posed against the sky in all its golden

brilliance as he had seen it when he had lain upon the sand, a castaway,

the first morning on that island. He thought and they all thought she

would go over without hesitating, but she looked back. That backward

look was her salvation.

Quicker witted than any, and realizing from her own womanly intuition

what was in her sister woman's mind, Stephanie saved the day. As

Truda's head came around, Stephanie took the boldest and most

astonishing action of her whole life. There, in plain view of Truda,

she struck Beekman full in the face with her clenched fist, and before

anyone could stop her she struck again and again. She rained blow after

blow upon him. She was a vigorous young woman, and in her excitement

she had no idea of the power which her frantic excitement gave to her

blows. Beekman, half-dazed from the other fall, and weakened from loss

of blood from the reopened wound in his arm, was too astonished for

resistance. Indeed, the first blow was enough. Instinctively, as one

blow succeeded another, he threw up his arm vainly and then went down

fairly under a mighty thrust into which she put all the force of her

body. Indeed, she almost leaped upon him as he staggered backward. She

recovered her balance with difficulty as Beekman fell a second time. He

cut his head on a rock as he went down, and lay there with his arms

outsprawled, senseless. As he did so Stephanie stepped forward with

uplifted foot as if to stamp upon him. The next moment, Harnash,

thinking her mad, clasped her in his arms.

"Stop, stop," he cried. "What has he done to you?"

"It was the only way," screamed Stephanie, hysterically. "Look!"

Then, and not until then, did they appreciate the meaning of her action.

It was plain to the jealous heart of Truda. She had seen the first blow

and the second. She had seen her lover go down. She saw him lying

there. What was this woman doing? How dared she lift a hand against

Beekman? Had he been killed? Rage--hot, savage, passionate--filled

Truda's heart. There would be time enough to die later. Meanwhile she

must teach this woman a lesson.

More swiftly than she had fled, she turned from the cliff brink and came

bounding down the path, and yet there was some joy in her heart.

Whatever Beekman might feel for this woman, it was obvious that she

regarded him with scorn. But it was mainly murderous resentment that

filled Truda's soul. Her face was transformed. It was convulsed with

passion, with anger, with savage rage. There might have been some

infiltration, some slight strain of Polynesian blood in this woman. She

was aflame to defend her lover, with the spirit of the lioness

sacrificing her life for her cub. In fact, the passion in her face was

appalling.

"Father," cried Stephanie as she approached, "don't you see?"

It was Maynard who caught the island girl in his arms. It was he who

held her firmly, despite her frantic struggles, while Stephanie

approached, with Harnash holding her tightly, but to protect her from

assault, because now he knew why she had done it.

"I only did it to stop you," she cried. "He loves you, not me. This is

the man I love. Don't you understand?"

The passion faded out of Truda's face. She did indeed understand. She

had been blind, mad to have doubted her lover. A great anxiety came

into her face. She stared down at Beekman in agonized contrition and

alarm. Her heart almost stopped at what she saw. Mr. Maynard released

her, gave her freedom. She knelt down by her lover's side. She lifted

his head in her arms and laid it against her breast. She called to him

passionately in every language with which she was familiar. She pressed

her lips to his lips, to his face, to his bleeding forehead.

Dr. Welch now came up with the party. Fortunately, he had brought a

flask with him. A few drops restored Beekman to consciousness. He

opened his eyes and gazed into Truda's face.

"Truda!" he said, struggling to a sitting position. "Thank God, you came

back to me!"

"And this woman?" asked Truda, looking up at Stephanie. "Do you love

her?"

She would have the truth from him, not from Stephanie or any other.

He shook his head.

"Forgive me, Stephanie. I love only you, Truda."

"But when you go back to that other world of which you told me, and I am

there, alone?"

"I will love only you," he answered in a voice which carried conviction

even to Truda.

She bent over him and laid her face in his hands.

"It strikes me," said Mr. Maynard, "that you haven't come out so badly,

after all, Beekman."

"No," said Beekman. "Harnash, it was a--it wasn't a--pleasant--thing

you did, but now that I love Truda, I can understand. We'll say no

more. Let's forget it and be friends again."

"And you forgive me?" asked Stephanie, kneeling by his side, while Truda

jealously raised her arm as a barrier. Stephanie laughed. "I won't

touch him," she said.

"What shall I forgive?"

"That violent assault of a moment since," she said as a deep flush

spread over her face. "It was the only way to let her see we were

nothing to each other."

"It was a very effective way," said Beekman, his native humor coming to

the rescue. "George," he said, extending his hand to his friend, "let

me give you a piece of advice. Take a few boxing lessons before you take

this lady for your wife."