"Here are stockings----" and he delved into his chest again.

"Truly--but twenty sizes too large. These boxes all seem to have

belonged to men. Let us get home before those awful birds come back."

So they returned to the raft and pushed it slowly along the pile, from

place to place, where the various portions of their cargo stood

awaiting them, and Wulfrey wrestled manfully with casks and barrels and

boxes in a way that would have astonished himself mightily three months

before. And The Girl, eager to help as far as she could--brushing

shoulders with him as they hauled and lifted, their hands overlapping

at times, their bare arms in closest contact as they struggled with the

insensate obstinacy of dead weights,--was very conscious of the play of

the corded muscles in his arms and back, and the energy and

determination of the quiet resolute face. And she was at once grateful

and exultant in the knowledge that all the powers this man possessed

were at her service, and that, if occasion should arise, they would be

expended for her to the uttermost and without hesitation.

She experienced sensations entirely new to her. She found them good.

They quickened her blood and stimulated her mind. She had seen much of

men, more perhaps than most for her years, but men of a very different

type,--unmuscular, powdered and peruked and befrilled, with airs and

graces and velvet coats which hid the lack of virility within, and did

duty for it to the world at large; men of wealth and highest culture

and too often of meanest heart, self-seeking, intent only on their

personal satisfactions, self-forgetful only in the pursuit of ignoble

ends.

In every particular so different from this man. She had met but very

few men whom she felt she could trust implicitly. Some of the most

apparently sincere had proved the least worthy. And they were the most

dangerous. They drew your trust, and so disarmed and then most

treacherously betrayed you. Oh, she had seen it, time and again, and

so her mind had come to look on men in general as beasts of prey, to be

dreaded, and avoided except in the most open and superficial fashion.

But this was a man of another world. She had met none like him. He

roused her and soothed her as none of those others ever had done, as no

man before had ever done.

She had seen men as good-looking, perhaps, but in a very different way.

Would they have looked as well, stripped of their trappings? She

doubted it. And never a man among them could or would, she was sure,

have handled these obdurate barrels and boxes as this man did. Truly

they seemed to object to removal from their lodging-places as though

they were endowed with minds of their own.

And she had trusted him implicitly, from the first moment she had

looked into his eyes, and recognised that it must be he who had drawn

her back out of the closing hand of death.

"Better put that on," said Wulfrey, dropping one of the coats over her

shoulders, when they had got everything aboard.

"Why? I am quite warm."

"We have done our work now till we get to the spit. No good chilling

in the wind. We're going to sail home," and he slipped on the other

jacket, and proceeded to rig up a sail and a steering plank as he had

seen the mate do.

The Girl broke into a laugh at the change for the worse produced in

their appearance by the jackets.

"You looked like a Greek or a Roman before," she said. "Now we both

look like gipsy tinkers."

"Fine feathers--fine birds?" he smiled, as they hauled out past the end

of the pile and began lumbering slowly homewards.

"Those awful birds!" and she glanced anxiously round for them, but they

were busy a mile away and troubled them no more.

XXXIII

The Girl was glad enough of her old coat before they reached the spit,

in spite of its demoralising effect on her appearance,--glad even to

snuggle down among the blankets, for, after the hard work of loading,

even the south-west wind began presently to feel cool.

Then came the discharging, and the transporting of their heavy weights

to the smaller raft on the lake, which could not take more than half

their cargo at a time. So he took her and a portion across to the

'Martha,' and she undertook to have supper ready by the time he got

back with the rest.

And surely she wrought pleasanter thoughts even than usual into her

cooking that day, for it seemed to him, when in due course he sat

opposite to her on the other side of their fire, that he had never

enjoyed a meal so much in his life, deficient as it was in many things

that he had always regarded as needful.

"We have done a good day's work," he said, as he lit his pipe at her

request.

"I wonder what he will say about it."

"We will not let it trouble us. He has only himself to blame."

"I wonder if you and he would have quarrelled if I had never come."

"We certainly would if he had taken the line he has done. As long as

he did his fair share of the providing I did not mind. But the

position he took up was an impossible one."

They fell into reminiscent talk of that great outer world which seemed

so remote, and from which, for all they knew, they were now for ever

cut off. She had many strange recollections of her earlier life in

France, some very terrible ones of the times of the Red Deluge, very

mixed ones of the later times in England.

It was amazing to him to sit in that bare cabin of a deserted ship, on

an island shunned by all, listening to her familiar talk of men and

women who had been but names to him, until her intimate knowledge of

them made them into actual living personages.

Her outlook on life had been very much wider than his own. She had

lived among the scenes and people of whom he had only read in the

news-sheets. He was immensely interested, both in the things she

talked about and the way she talked about them. His questionings

towards a clearer understanding on points which were to her matters of

simplest elementary knowledge amused her not a little. And he got many

a self-revealing glimpse into that strange past life of hers, from

which she was so contented to escape, but which was yet so full of

colour and contrast and vivid actuality that, in spite of all its

discrepancies and disillusionments, it had assumed for her a certain

glamour which she averred it had never worn at the time.

"Wait a moment," he would say, breaking into her flow of reminiscence,

"'Monsieur' is----?"

"The Comte de Provence, the late King's brother, my uncle. My father,

the King's next brother, the Comte d'Artois, is 'Monseigneur.' He has

become terribly devout since Mme de Polastron died. The abbe Latil is

his heart and mind and conscience. In his way he was fond of me, I

believe, but since I came to understand the wrong he did my mother, I

have detested him. And I have no doubt he was not sorry when I broke

away. I was a perpetual reminder, you see----"

"And there is another Countess d'Artois?"

"Oh, yes,--Marie Therese of Savoy, but she is too awful,--a quite

impossible woman, one must say that much for him. If ever a man had

good excuse for seeking his pleasures elsewhere, he had. She was

terrible. She had no more moral feeling than a cat."

"And Madame Adelaide----? Let me see--who was she?"

"My great-aunt--poor old thing! Those atrocious Narbonnes lived on her

and turned her round their fingers."

"And Madame Elizabeth? It is terribly confusing."

"Not at all. It is all as simple as can be. Madame Elizabeth was my

aunt, my father's sister. She was very sweet. Poor dear! They cut

off her head, though she never harmed a soul since the day she was

born. She was very good to me. If she had lived I do not think I

would be here. She was not like the rest. I could have lived happily

with her."

And so she chattered away,--about the late King--her uncle also,--and

of the Duc d'Orleans,--"always a self-seeker, and intriguer, with a

very sharp eye on the way things might turn to his own benefit. Oh, I

am glad they took his head off. It was righteous retribution."--And of

the Queen---- "She did foolish things at times, but she meant no harm,

and, mon Dieu, how she suffered!"--And of Lafayette, and Talleyrand,

and many and many another.

And it was indeed passing strange to lie there listening to it all--she

clad in her blankets, for the night air had a chill in it, and he in

the sea-damaged coat and small clothes of a gentleman of the Duke of

Kent's suite, while between them the thin blue reek of the drift-wood

fire on its hearth of sand stole up through the half-closed

companion-hatch to the lonely night outside.

XXXIV

"We shall have a visit from our next-door neighbour presently, I

expect," said Wulfrey, when The Girl came out of her cabin next

morning. "Will you mind stopping below while I dispose of him?"

"But why?"

"He puts things coarsely at times, and he will probably be in a very

bad humour at having to get his own meals ready."

"I don't mind him."

"Nor do I, except on your account. But I shall feel happier if you are

out of sight and hearing."

"Oh, very well. But nothing he could say would trouble me in the

slightest."

So, after breakfast, she sat down on the cabin floor to her sewing, and

he lit his pipe and went up on deck carrying his axe. He closed the

companion-doors and hatch very quietly--but she heard him--and went

forward into the bows, which, since the usual wind blew from the

south-west, was the nearest point to the 'Jane and Mary.'

It was a long time before the mate showed any signs, beyond an extra

rush of smoke when he made up his fire to cook his breakfast. But he

came up at last, caught sight of Wulfrey, and stood scowling across at

him for a time. Then he dropped down on to his raft and came wobbling,

with quick angry strokes, across to the 'Martha.'

"So that's it, is it?" he growled, with a grim look on his dark face.

"That's it," said Wulfrey coolly.

"And you think you've got her all to yourself?--what you've been

plotting for ever since I hauled her ashore."

"Are you speaking of Miss Drummond?"

"I'm speaking of that girl. 'Twas me hauled her ashore an' she's my

right if she's anybody's."

"There it is, you see. She is nobody's right but her own. And neither

she nor I are your servants, to prepare your food and see to your

comfort while you dig treasure out of the wreckage. So we have decided

to fend for ourselves and you can fend for yourself."

"Ah! You think so, do you? We'll see about that."

"We undertake not to go aboard your ship if you give your word not to

come aboard ours."

"See you ---- first!"

"Thank you! Then now we know how we stand, and will act accordingly."

"Ay, now you know."

"And will act accordingly," emphasised Wulfrey once more. "I must ask

you to keep off," as the mate paddled alongside and reached up a rough

hairy hand to the side. "I'm sorry it's come to this, but I won't have

you on board."

"Won't, eh?" and as he reached up the other hand and prepared to mount,

Wulfrey picked up his axe and held it threateningly above the clinging

hands, which straightway loosed their hold amid a volley of curses.

"---- ---- ---- ---- you! You'd maim me! ---- ---- ---- ---- me, if I

don't pay you for this! The girl's mine. I found her. I'll get her

over your dead body if needs be."

"Ah! And who found you? And where would you be if I hadn't helped you

on to the raft yon first night? Tell me that, will you? By the same

rule you're mine, and all you've got is mine."

"---- ---- ---- ---- you for a ---- ---- ---- sea-lawyer!" foamed the

mate, his dark face and eyes all ablaze, his shaking fists hurling

curses beyond the compass of his tongue.

Wulfrey, eyeing him professionally, said to himself, "Too much rum.

He'll have D.T. if he doesn't slack off--or a fit if he does much of

this kind of thing."

The mate thrashed back to his own ship with furious strokes and climbed

aboard, and Wulfrey, having watched him safely up the side, went down

to The Girl.

"He is very angry," he said quietly.

"He did not whisper. I couldn't help hearing him. What will he do

next?"

"We can only wait and see. We shall have to be on our guard, but we

won't let him trouble us. He is drinking too much."

They saw nothing more of him all that day, not even his head above the

bulwarks. Wulfrey surmised that he was probably treating his wrath

with rum, and plotting mischief, or maybe he was lying dead drunk in

his cabin. They themselves were well provided in all respects, but he

had good reason to know that stocks across there were running low, and

that before long the man of wrath would have to go abroad to make up

his deficiencies, and that would give them the opportunity of getting

in fresh water and rabbit-meat.

He could only hope the mate would not postpone his journey too long,

for the weather seemed like changing. There was no sun visible, not a

speck of blue sky, but in their place a wan-white opaqueness which

looked portentous and might mean anything.

Wulf spent most of the day on the alert, leaving the deck only for

meals, and popping up even in the middle of them to make sure that all

was right. But Macro made no sign.

There was no knowing, however, what a furious, rum-fuddled man might

attempt. His crazy jealousy and anger might stick at nothing, and

Wulfrey looked forward to a watchful night as a necessity.

And, as he paced the deck, he ruminated on the handicap imposed by

virtue on an honest man when fighting roguery. Here was Macro at

liberty to sleep without fear of assault, to go ashore for water and

fresh meat, and to the wreckage for everything he wanted, assured in

his own mind that no one would rifle his stores, or fire his ship, or

play any other dastardly trick, in his absence. While they, if they

left their stronghold unguarded for an hour, must be exposed to all

these things, and constant watchfulness would be necessary to prevent

them.

It was not a pleasant prospect and he did not see how it was going to

end. At the same time he did not see what other course had been left

to them, and he was determined to go through with this, cost what it

might.

The thought of striking down this man with whom he had lived in

fellowship, even in fair fight, was abhorrent to him. The thought of

being struck down himself made his blood run cold on The Girl's

account. Both possibilities must be avoided if possible. The latter

at all hazards. If it came to the mate suffering or The Girl, the mate

would have to go without compunction.

XXXV

The night passed without disturbance, the morning found them swathed in

dense white mist which hid one side of the ship from the other.

"He did not come again?" asked The Girl when they met. "I am ashamed

to have slept so soundly. I intended to take my fair share of the

watching."

"There was no need. I bolted the doors and slept at the foot of the

stairs. It's all cotton-wool outside. You can't see a couple of feet.

He won't venture out in that, if I know him. But we need water. I'll

go across after breakfast and get some."

"I shall come too. I wouldn't stop here alone for anything."

"All right. Our only difficulty will be in finding the shore and

getting back to the ship. Fog is terribly bewildering."

"If you can find the shore we can get back all right," she said, after

thinking it over.

"How?"

"We have that heap of rope you brought over. Could we not untwist some

and make a cord? Then if we tied one end to the ship and carried the

other ashore we could feel our way back by it."

"It will take a lot of untwisting. We're quite two hundred yards from

the shore. But it's worth trying."

So they untwisted rope till their fingers were sore, and tied the

pieces together till he judged they had enough, and presently they

embarked noiselessly on their raft and paddled in the direction in

which he believed the shore lay, The Girl paying out the string as they

went.

This weird envelopment of dense white mist was a new experience for

her. She could barely see the water a foot or two away. The string

slipped through her fingers and vanished into the fog-wall. Dale,

sweeping the water with his oar, loomed dim and large just above her.

They went on and on, but found no shore.

"The string is nearly all done," she said at last.

"Then we're going wrong," he whispered. "Don't speak loud, we don't

know how near we may be to----" and, as if to confirm his fears, a

great black bulk appeared in the clammy white above them, and Wulfrey

hurriedly checked their way and backed off into the fog again.

"'The Jane and Mary,'" he whispered, when they had put a space between

them and it. "We've been circling round. The shore must be this way,

I think----" and the cord slacked in The Girl's fingers as he struck

off to the right, and in due course they made the beach with cord to

spare.

They tied the precious guiding-line to the raft and set off with their

buckets, Wulfrey trailing his oar behind him so that by its mark in the

sand they might grope their way back. In his belt he carried the only

weapon he possessed, his axe, which, as matters stood with the mate, he

deemed it advisable always to have at hand.

Keeping along the edge of the lake till he judged they were opposite

the ponds, they struck inland, and managing to keep a straighter course

than on the water, came at last to their goal.

They filled their buckets and were returning on their trail, bending

every now and again to make sure they were right, when, with an

abruptness that startled the buckets out of their hands, a dark figure

loomed up on them out of the fog and they found themselves face to face

with the mate.

He had heard them coming and was ready. Wulfrey had barely time to

drop his oar and pluck out his axe when the other sprang at him with

his weapon swung up for the blow.

It was very grim. Of all fighting-tools the axe is the most

brutal--after, perhaps, the spiked club and the scythe-blade tied on a

pole, which are only fit for savages. It is cumbersome and ungainly.

It admits of little skill either in attack or defence. Its arguments

are final and convincing, and its wounds are very ghastly.

The Girl could barely make out which was which, so thick was the

veiling fog. But that did not matter. She sprang in between the two

dark figures with arms outspread, at imminent risk of receiving both

their blows, crying, "No!--You shall not! You shall not!"

The mate hurled oaths at her. She thought he was going to strike her

down. And past her, at Wulfrey,--"---- ye! It's like ye. Steal her

first, then hide behind her!"

With one big black hand he gripped her blanket cloak and whirled her

away into the mist, and came plunging at Wulfrey, who stood with poised

axe and eyes that watched his every movement.

The mate played round him for an opening. Out of the corner of his eye

he saw The Girl groping about for the oar. He rushed in to end it with

one crushing blow.

But Wulf was ready for him and he was the cooler man. As the mate's

axe came swooshing down straight for his shoulder and neck, his own

swung round, caught the other full in the blade with its own stout

back, and with a ringing click sent it flying, with such a shock to the

arm that had held it that the mate believed it was broken. He ducked

with an oath and disappeared into the fog.

The Girl came panting up, her face all sanded with her fall, her eyes

ablaze. "Did it reach you?"

"Not at all. I'm all right."

"The brute! I feared he would kill you."

"He did his worst.... What were you going to do with that?"--the oar

she had picked up.

"I was going to smash him on the head with it, but I couldn't find it

at first."

"Two to one!"

"I don't care. I'd have killed him if I could."

"What about our water?"

"It's all spilled."

"We'll go back for more. He won't come back. I doubt if he'll find

his axe in this fog. Which way now?" and he stood puzzling, for force

of circumstance and much trampling of the sand had lost them their

clue. "You cast round that way for the mark of the oar, but don't go

far. I'll try this side. Call if you find."

"Here!" she cried, almost at once, and he followed her voice into the

fog and found her standing on the line.

But so confused were they that even then they had not an idea which way

to follow it.

"Which way?" she asked, staring down at the groove under her feet.

"This, I think.... I don't know," and he stood perplexed, "There is

nothing for it but following it up and seeing where we come to."

So they picked up their buckets, and he took the oar, and they set off

again,--and came out at last, not on the green undergrowth which

flourished round the ponds, but on the bare shore of the lake.

"Now we know where we are at all events. Dare you stop here while I go

back?"

"No," she said with a shiver.

"Come along, then!" and they turned and went back, and he discoursed of

fogs as they went. "Nothing like a fog for absolutely confusing one's

sense of direction. I've known people wander for hours on a common,

round and round, quite unable to get anywhere. And one soon gets into

a panic and common sense goes overboard."

She had not had much experience of fogs, but expressed herself

vehemently on the subject, and so they came to the ponds, and back, in

time, to their raft. And Wulfrey was mightily glad to see it again,

for the idea had been troubling him that Macro might have found it, and

set it adrift, or gone off to their ship to find solace there for his

discomfiture ashore.

"I wonder where he's got to?" he said anxiously.

"I don't care. I wish he'd get lost in the fog and never come back."

"You feel strongly," he said, with a smile at her vehemence.

"Yes, I like or I dislike, and both to the full."

The guiding-line led them safely home, and glad they were to get there,

for the chill of the fog and the treacheries it held were enough to

weigh down the staunchest of spirits.

XXXVI

Their experiences in the fog had occupied many hours, and the unusual

strain had left them both somewhat lax and weary. By the time they had

prepared and eaten their much-delayed meal, and were enjoying the

after-rest, the thick whiteness outside had turned to chiller gray, and

the comfort of a blazing fire was eminently agreeable.

Wulfrey closed the companion-doors and hatch, all except the narrowest

crack through which the smoke could escape, lit his pipe, and lay at

ease, watching the many-coloured tongues of the dancing flames and The

Girl who sat gazing dreamily into them on the other side, and wondered

how it would have been with them all if Macro's vicious blow had got

home on his neck.

She was very good to look upon as she sat there in the flickering

half-darkness. The gracious curves of her supple young figure

transformed the bare little cabin into a Temple of Youth and Beauty.

The dusky glamour of her hair, the shadowy beauty of her dark soft

eyes, the level brows and wide white forehead which gave such strength

and dignity to her face--they all held for him an arrest and an appeal

such as he had never before experienced.

She had made herself a robe out of a piece of the crimson silk they had

brought over from the pile. It was hardly a dress, for it swathed

about her in flowing folds rather than fitted to her. But he thought

he had never seen so becoming a garment. It was sheer delight to lie

and look at her.

But it was a sufficiently difficult problem that faced him. In his

present state of mind, the mate seemed determined to make an end of him

the first chance that offered. Was there any reasonable hope of a

change for the better in him? Were they to live in a perpetual state

of defence till one of them went under?--all the advantages of

unscrupulous attack being left to the enemy. Was it reasonable? If

not, what was to be done, and how?

The man had suddenly become a deadly menace. He was no better, in his

unprincipled cravings, than a wild beast. If that girl fell helpless

into his coarse hands.... And she knew it and looked to him for

protection.

And protection to the utmost of his powers she should have.... Was he

justified in slaying the man? ... In view of the deadly intent of this

latest attack he thought he was. But whether he could bring himself to

it, if the chance offered, he was not by any means sure.... The

deliberate killing of one's fellow was a serious matter.... In

self-defence of course one was justified.... As to the law--it seemed

as though the mate was right in his belief that they were destined to

spend the rest of their lives--some of them at all events--on this bare

bank of sand, where none ever came who could help it, and where no law

but that of Nature obtained.... But there was a higher law. "Thou

shalt not kill." ... Yes, it would be very much against the grain of

his life and conscience, but it might have to be....

He sat up suddenly, listening intently.

"What is it?" asked The Girl, startled out of her own reverie.

He raised his hand for silence.

"I thought I heard a cry," and he got up, and went up the steps, and

opened the door and stood there straining his ears into the clammy

darkness. The fog lay thicker than ever. It was like listening into

the side of a bale of raw cotton. The faint glow of the fire below

died against the opaque wall in front. It could not have been seen a

yard away.

The Girl stood on the stairs close behind him.

"I must have been mistaken," he murmured, "or perhaps it was a

seagull,"--when, just below and almost alongside them, there came the

violent sweep of an oar used as a paddle, and a wild spate of curses

like the furious outburst of a panic-stricken brain.

Wulf slipped noiselessly down for his axe and stepped up on deck. If

he went past, well and good. If he ran into them----

There came a sudden bump against the side of their ship and the sound

of a fall on the raft.

"---- ---- ---- ---- ye, ye ---- ---- rotten old coffin! I've got ye

at last, ---- ---- ----!" and right up out of the fog under Wulfrey's

nose came two clammy black hands clawing nervously at the bulwark.

"You can't come aboard here, Macro," he said quietly. The grimy hands

loosed with a startled oath and the mate dropped back on to his raft.

"----! That you again? ---- ---- ---- ---- you! I thought.... Then

my ---- craft must be over there. ---- ---- ----! I'll do for you

yet, my cully!" and the oar dashed into the water again and he cursed

himself off into the darkness.

"You could have killed him," gasped The Girl at his side, through her

chattering teeth.

"I could--but I couldn't."

"We shall have no peace while he lives."

"I fear not. Still--I couldn't cut him down in cold blood like that.

What would you have thought of me if I had done so?"

"I should have said you had done well."

"I know you better."

At which she shook her head. "You don't know what horrid thoughts

whirl about in my mind. No man really knows what a woman thinks," and

the frank dark eyes regarded him solemnly.

"I know you better than you do yourself."

"I doubt it," with another shake of the head. "But, even then, it

might have been best,"--with a shiver--"It sounds horrible--but----"

He could understand all her feeling in the matter. In her place he

would have felt just the same. The man was a hideous menace--to her

especially--and there would be no security for them while he lived.

But all the same....

"Let us get back to the fire," he said quietly. "He won't come back

tonight. Poor wretch, he's probably been paddling about all day

looking for his ship and he's half crazed with it."

"I don't think I am bloodthirsty by nature," she said, with her hands

pressed tight to her eyes, when she had sunk down before the fire

again. "But I fear that man with all my soul, both for myself and you.

He will kill you if he gets the chance. If he kills you I shall kill

myself. It is better that one should die than two."

"I agree, but I don't want to have the killing of him if I can help it."

"Killing is horrible," and she shivered again, "But being killed is

worse ... and to fall into the hands of a man like that would be even

worse still. What will be the end of it all?"

But that was beyond him, and their hearts were heavy over it.

XXXVII

"Is it often like this?" asked The Girl depressedly, on the third day

of mist.

"I'm afraid there's a good deal of it. We've had it three or four

times since we came. It may be worse in the winter."

"I wish we could get away."

"I wish so too, but I don't see how we're to manage it ... unless,

sometime, a boat washes ashore among the wreckage. And even then ...

without Macro to manage it..." and he shook his head unhopefully. "...

In the meantime I count it marvellous gain that you should have

come----"

And at that it was her turn to shake her head. "I don't know. I seem

to have brought more harm than good."

"It has made all the difference in the world."

"Yes, it has set you two by the ears and put you in peril of your life.

That is not a good work."

"Your company more than compensates. Besides, we should probably have

got to loggerheads in any case, and without anything like so good a

reason."

"It would have been better, I think, if you had let me go when I was so

nearly gone, and not rubbed me back to life."

"I thank God that you came," he said weightily. "Without you we might

have sunk into savages, caring only for the lower things. You lift me

without knowing it."

"You couldn't sink into a savage. He is one naturally. And I am

becoming one, for I am all the time wishing he were dead."

"He must be having a bad time, unless he brought over provisions that

last time, and I doubt if he did. He's probably living chiefly on rum.

And that won't bring him to any better frame of mind, I'm afraid."

"To think," she mused, "that three people cannot live on an island big

enough to hold thousands, without quarrelling to the death!"

"The trouble is not of our making, so we need not blame ourselves."

"Yes, it is. I began it by coming ashore. You ought to have let me

stop out there----"

"You are very much better here."

"----And you continued it by bringing me back to life. You ought to

have let me die."

"Very well. I accept all the blame and rejoice in it," he said, with a

smile. "It is just the fog getting into you. You'll feel differently

about it when the sun comes out again."

"Sun? I don't believe we are going to see it again. I don't believe

it ever shines here or ever has done since the world began. It is an

island of mist ... and we are just vapours----"

"Macro's not anyway. I wish he were. He wouldn't trouble me in the

slightest then. He's a solid strong mixture of Spanish buccaneer and

Highland robber, with a touch of volcano to keep the mixture boiling."

But the chill of the mist was upon her and nothing he could say availed

to cheer her. So he hauled out the rolls of silk they had brought

over, and set to work decorating the cabin with them, and interested

her out of her depression by the purposed mistakes he made.

It was the ravelling off of a long thread from one of the pieces of

silk he was cutting, that showed him the way to a new employment for

her and the possibilities of a welcome addition to their meagre larder.

"Do you think you could twist two or three of these into a

fishing-line?" he asked her. "I've seen heaps of fish in the lake. We

might try for some."

"And hooks?"

"If you could spare me one of your big needles I think I could make

something that might do."

She went at once and got him one, and then set to work on the line, and

he could hardly get on with his own job for watching her.

She was so eminently graceful in all her movements. Her tall slender

figure, supple, shapely, and all softly rounded curves without a

discoverable abruptness or angularity anywhere about it, lent itself

with singular charm to her present occupation. After thoughtful

consideration of the matter, she unrolled one of the pieces of silk the

whole width of the cabin, then picking out a thread, she fastened the

end of it to the woodwork and travelled along the side of the piece,

bending and releasing it as she went. The same with two more threads.

"Three ply will be strong enough?" she asked, straightening up and

looking across at him.

"Let me see what three ply feel like," and he went across and watched

her while she twisted the threads tightly together with deft soft

fingers.

"I should think that would do," he said, running it between his finger

and thumb. Their hands met, and the touch of hers sent a quite

unexpected thrill of physical delight tingling through his veins. He

did not dare to look full at her for the moment, lest she should see it

in his eyes. But he was conscious to the point of pain of her close

proximity,--somehow conscious too--and that quite unconsciously and

without any reasoning on the matter--that, in the twinkling of an eye,

she was no longer simply a beautiful and charming girl, but had become

for him the most beautiful and charming girl in all the world.

His heart felt suddenly too big for his body. He could have taken her

in his arms then and there, and crushed her to him, and smothered her

with hot kisses. And he could no more have done it than he could have

brained her with his axe. For she trusted him implicitly, and he was

himself.

He took a deep breath to give his heart more room, and bent to examine

her twist.

"It will do splendidly," he said, and she glanced quickly at him and

wondered what had made that curious change in his voice. "How will you

keep it rolled tight like that?"

"I've been thinking. If I greased my fingers with some of that pork

fat as I roll it, and roll it very tight, it will probably keep so.

How long will you want it?"

"As long as you can make it without too much trouble."

"I can make it the full length of that silk as far as I see."

"That will do admirably.... If I can make as good a hook as you have

made a line we will have fish for dinner," and he went back to the

fire, where, with his axe and his knife and two rusty nails lashed

together at the top to act as tweezers, he was endeavouring to bend a

portion of her needle into a hook.

At the cost of some burns and cuts he managed at last to make something

distantly resembling one.

"It looks horrid," said The Girl when he showed it to her. "I shall be

sorry for the fishes if they get that into them."

"So shall I. But we'll not let them suffer long if they give us the

chance."

She was as eager as a child with a new toy to put their work to the

test. So he cut some small pieces of pork and embedded his hook in

one, and dropped it into the bed of mist over the side.

And she leaned over, with her shoulder unconsciously against his,--but

he felt it, and rejoiced in the feel as keenly as ever Macro did in his

treasure-trove--and peered anxiously down at the line, of which she

could see but a couple of feet, and waited impatiently for results.

He put it into her hand, saying,

"If anything comes of it you shall have the honour of catching our

first fish," but he held on to the slack behind.

"It's jerking," she whispered breathlessly, "Oh, I'm sure there's

something on it..." and as she let go the line he gave it a jerk on his

own account, then drew it quickly in and a plump astonished fish lay

jumping and twisting on the deck. It was over a foot in length, very

prettily coloured, dark blue with many cross-streaks and silvery below.

"Mackerel, I think," he said, and promptly knocked it on the head, to

end its troubles and allow him the further use of his hook.

"The poor little thing! I'm so sorry," she said, looking mournfully

down at the iridescent beauty. "I don't think I like fishing."

"You'll think better of it when it's fried."

"I couldn't touch it," with a vigorous shake of the head.

So he asked her to go down and make some cakes, and then caught another

fish of a different kind the moment the bait reached the water, and a

couple more for breakfast next day, and was thereby much reassured as

to the future of their larder. He cleaned two of his fish and fried

them with some pork fat as soon as she had made her cakes, and

proceeded to reason her out of her prejudice.

"You have eaten fish all your life, haven't you?" he asked.

"Ye-es."

"Well, every fish has had to be caught before you could eat it. They

generally leave them to die. But even that is probably only similar to

our drowning, which is said to be about as pleasant a way as there is

of going."

"It's horribly cold if you're lashed to a mast,"--with a reminiscent

shiver. "And being rubbed back to life is just as bad."

"And we are more merciful, because we kill them at once."

"It's horrible to think that everything we eat, except things that grow

of course, has got to suffer death for us."

"But you have always eaten these things without being troubled about

it."

"The killing has never been brought home to me so closely before."

"It's Nature's law, you see. Everything feeds on something else.

These fishes feed on smaller things. And how do you know that when you

cut a cabbage or a potato----"

"How I wish I had the chance!"

"So do I, most heartily. But how do you know they don't feel it just

as much, in their own dull way, as the pig did from which we get our

pork?"

She shook her head and sighed. "We can't get away from it, I suppose,"

and tasted the fish and found it good, and ate quite heartily though

with an appearance of protest.

"You see," he said. "Some fishes lay millions of eggs at a time. If

they all grew up the sea would be choked with them, as the earth would

be with animals if they weren't killed off. Besides, unless I am

mistaken in my recollection of our old parson's reading, all these

things were expressly provided for man's sustenance, so we are only

doing our duty in eating them."

"All the same, I think I will let you do all the catching and killing."

"Of course. That is the man's proper part in the family economy. He

is the bread-and-meat winner. And the wife's--the woman's, I mean--is

to see to the cooking," and he occupied himself busily with fish-bones,

and felt like biting his tongue off for its involuntary slip.

"If you had lived on pork and rabbits for months you would find this

fish delicious," he said presently, to break the odd little silence

that had fallen on them.

"It is very good. I wonder you never caught any before."

"I did try, but my tackle was too rough. The fish would have none of

it. It is your clever line that has done the trick."

"I am glad to be of some use, though I can't help being sorry for the

fish."

And if he had dared he would have delighted to tell her of what

infinitely greater use she was to him in other and higher ways.

XXXVIII

Wulfrey was awakened in the night by the sounds he had come to

recognise as the accompaniments of bad weather. The ship was humming

in the wind and straining and jerking restively at the rusty cable

which he was always expecting to give way. He wondered sleepily what

would happen to them if it did. Wondered also if The Girl was

frightened at the changed conditions, or whether she would understand.

He slipped on some clothes and went into the cabin, to reassure her if

necessary.

The fire was a bed of white ashes and a rose-gold core in the centre.

He piled on some chips and the flames broke out with a cheerful

crackle. The door of The Girl's little passage way opened an inch or

two, and he caught a glimpse of her startled eyes shining in the

fire-light.

"I was afraid you might be disturbed by the storm," he said.

She went back for a moment, and then came out with her blanket skirt

and cloak swathed about her, and sat down by the fire.

"It woke me, and I cannot get to sleep again. Oh ... what is

that?"--as a shrill scream pealed out just above the opening in the

companion-hatch.

"It's only those infernal birds. They always come screeching round us

in bad weather."

"I had just been dreaming that that horrid man came across in the night

and murdered us both. It was such a relief to see you alive again."

"No fear of his venturing out in this weather. Those screaming birds

get on his nerves. He'll be sitting drinking, and cursing them in the

most awful Gaelic he can twist his tongue to. This weather will

probably last a couple of days. Then it will slack up, and just when

you're thinking it's all gone it will come back worse than ever.

Fortunately we've got---- By Jove!"--and he ran hastily up the

companion, unbolted the door and ran out on deck. The gale came

whuffling down on the fire and scattered the white ashes in a cloud,

and set the silken drapery of the walls rustling wildly. The shrill

clamour of the birds sounded very close, and The Girl sat anxiously

wondering.

He came back in a minute, empty-handed and disconsolate. "I just

remembered my fish. I left two up there for breakfast, but the birds

have had them. They're as thick on the deck as bees on a comb, hoping

for more."

"Is that all? I was afraid that man was coming and you'd heard him."

"It means living on pork till the storm passes."

"That is nothing. We shall enjoy the other things all the more later

on."

"I'm wondering all the time how Macro is getting on----" he said,

pulling out his pipe and filling it.

"Why trouble about him? He would not trouble about us if we were

starving."

"I don't suppose he would.... I suppose it comes of my being so in the

habit of helping people through their bodily troubles."

"It is wasted on him. He would not let you help him if you could."

"I don't believe he would, unless he were helpless.... I wish he'd

never come ashore."

"But in that case I would not be here either, and you would have been

all alone for the rest of your life."

"Then, after all, I'm glad he came ashore."

"I wonder if you would have gone mad in time with the loneliness of

it," she said musingly.

"It would be horrible to be all alone for all the rest of one's life,

but I don't think I would have gone mad. I've no doubt there are books

to be found among the wreckage out there. Still ... for the rest of

one's life!"--and he shook his head doubtfully. "As things are,

however...."

"As things are?" she queried, after waiting for him to finish.

"As things are, I am quite content to stop here for the rest of my

life, if that has to be. But that won't stop my doing my best to get

away if the chance offers.... And you?"

"If we were delivered from that man I could be content here also....

But I do not say for all my life. That sounds terribly long.... But

for that man it would be a welcome retreat from a world of which I had

had a surfeit."

He wondered much if she were heart-whole. It seemed almost incredible

to him that she could have lived that strange life of hers without some

man wanting and touching it. So fair a prize, to go wholly unclaimed

and undesired! But never, in all her talk, had she said one word that

pointed to anything of the kind. Rather had she held up the men she

had met to derogation and contempt. Surely, if there had been anyone

to whom her heart turned and clung, some evidence of it would have

shown itself.

From all she had said, from all her little unconscious

self-revelations, and the wholesome judgment he had formed of her in

his own mind, he could well believe that, in that whirlpool of a world

in which she had lived, she had come to hold most men in doubt and all

at arm's length. And the thought was agreeable to him.

When the slow day broke, dim and clangorous with the gale, they dallied

over a meal, talking of many things to pass the time, and then went up

on deck, and with a brandished stick he ridded the ship of the

clustering birds. They shrieked threateningly and came swooping at him

on the wings of the wind, with hungry beaks and merciless eyes. But

here he was at home and would not suffer their invasion, and finally

they gave it up and fled to the sandhills, cursing him shrilly as they

went.

"Oh, there's one gone downstairs," cried The Girl; and running down

after it, he found a great black cormorant squawking fearfully round

the cabin and dashing itself against the walls in its wild attempts at

escape. At sight of him it grew frantic, but finally found its way out

of the hatch again, almost upsetting The Girl in its passage, and then

tore away to tell its fellows of the awful place it had been in, which

smelt so good but was so much easier to get into than out of. Wulfrey

had to open one of the lee ports and let the gale blow through to get

rid of the smell of it, and then he went up again to The Girl.

They watched the great rollers thundering on the beach beyond the spit,

rocketing their white spume high into the grim black sky, and lashing

over at times into the lake. And when he called to her to look the

other way she watched with amazement sandhills of size melt away before

her eyes and re-form themselves in quite different places.

"But it is past words!" she cried into his ear.

They stared long too at the 'Jane and Mary' of Boston, but saw no sign

of life aboard of her except the birds that clustered there unmolested.

"It is a most amazing place," she said, when they went down again, as

she dusted the saltness out of her hair with her hand. "Is it often

like this?"

"Very often in the winter, I should fear. We've had our best weather

since you came."

"I don't think I want to live all my life here," she said dejectedly.

"I love the sun."

And he would dearly have liked to tell her that he did the same, but

that for him she made more sunshine even than the sun itself.

Instead, he prosaically set her to the making of more fishing-lines, in

case of accident to the one they had, and he himself hammered away at

more hooks, burning and ragging his fingers out of knowledge, but

producing hooks of a kind somehow.

XXXIX

The gale slackened on the third day, and Wulfrey was actually relieved

in his mind at the sight of Macro hurrying ashore on his raft, after

fresh meat, and, from the fact of his buckets, water, which he had

probably been too careless, or too drunk, to secure during the storm.

For the thought of his possibly lying there alone and foodless had not

been a pleasant one, good reason as he had for disliking the man.

For themselves, he baited and cast his hooks, and landed half a dozen

fish as fast as he could haul them out. Their fresh meat supply would

have to wait until Macro went out to the wreckage and their minds could

be at ease as to the safety of their headquarters. The sea outside was

still too high for any possibility of his going that day, and

fortunately, thanks to their new source of supply, they could wait with

equanimity. Water they had caught in plenty in the buckets slung under

the scuppers.

"He's alive at any rate," said Wulfrey, when he went down to breakfast.

"So much the worse for us," said The Girl.

"He's been fasting, I should say, by the way he has gone off after

rabbits. We ate our first ones raw, I remember."

"Savages!"

"Savage with hunger. We had had nothing to eat but shell-fish and

sea-weed for days."

"Horrible!--raw rabbit and sea-weed!"

"We had no means of making fire, no shelter. We slept out on the

sands, and were glad to be simply alive."

"I'm truly thankful you had risen to a higher state before I came."

"So am I. We were not good to look at. We were as men who had died

out there among the dead ships' bones and been born again on this

sandbank, lacking everything. Fortunately for us the years that had

gone before had been unconsciously making provision for us, and here

were houses ready-made and waiting, and out there more than we could

use in a lifetime."

They saw the mate return after a time with his supplies, and he never

showed head again all day. Wulfrey let The Girl keep a look-out, and

tried himself to get some sleep, in anticipation of the night-watch

which he saw would be necessary.

"He will probably go out to the pile tomorrow," he said. "He must be

out of flour and probably of rum. Then we can take a run ashore

ourselves. When he gets back he will probably be too tired to be up to

any mischief."

"I wish he would tame down and let us have peace, or else go and get

himself killed," she said anxiously. "We can't go on like this for

ever."

"I'm afraid he won't oblige us either way. We can only hang on and

hope for the best, and keep our eyes open."

His watch that night passed undisturbed. In the morning, as he

expected, Macro set off for the wreckage; and, taking some food with

them, they went ashore for a long day's ramble.

"It is good to feel the width of land under one again," said The Girl,

fairly dancing with delight. "I am very grateful for the ship, but

truly it is small and cramping."

"Sandhills are good for play-time, but you'd miss the ship when

bed-time came. It's cold work sleeping on the sand."

"Almost as bad as sleeping on a broken mast. Which way shall we go?

You are quite sure he has gone to the wreckage?"

"Quite sure. I watched him out of sight. Besides, I am sure he had to

go."

"Then let us go the opposite way, as far as we can, and we'll stop out

all day long and behave like children. I'm going to walk in the

water," and she kicked off her shoes and lifted her blanket skirt and

tripped along in the lip of the tide, and he did the same, enjoying her

enjoyment.

A watery sun shone feebly through a thin gray sky, the air was still

heavy with moisture, the water in which they were walking was warmer

than that of the lake. On that side, the island curved like the

concave side of a great half-moon. The pale yellow sand stretched on

and on as far as their eyes could reach.

"I would like to bathe," said she exuberantly.

"Wait till we get beyond the end of our lake, then you can take this

side and I'll go across to the other. You won't go out too far? There

may be under-currents that would carry you out."

"I'll be very careful. And you must not come back for an hour... Oh,

what are those? ... Dead men?"

In a tiny dent in the long sweep of the curve, made by the sandhills

running almost down to the water, were half a dozen dark objects lying

on the dry sand and looking for all the world like dead bodies. He had

never seen any jetsam of size on that side. The drive of the storms

and drift of the currents landed everything on the western spits and

banks. Still there was no knowing.

"Wait here!" he said, and set off towards them. And she followed close

at his heels.

But before they had gone many paces, one of the bodies set itself

suddenly in motion and began to shuffle towards the water.

"Seals," said Wulf, who had never set eyes on a live one in his life,

but had a general idea of what they were like.

Before they could reach them, all had flopped away except one, which,

when they drew near, raised its head and eyed them piteously and made

an effort to rise.

"It is sick or wounded," said Wulf. "Poor beast! Its eyes are like a

woman's in----" He bethought himself and bit it off short. He had

seen just such a look in many a woman's eyes.

"We won't disturb her," he said, and led the way round to give her wide

berth.

"Oh--look! Oh, the little darling! How I would love to cuddle it!"

whispered The Girl, for there, on the other side of Mrs Seal, with her

front fins clasping it protectingly, was a late-born baby sucking away

for dear life.

The Girl's face was transfigured,--ablaze with intensest sympathy and

the wonderful light of mother-love. The mother's eyes followed them

anxiously, the fear in them died out as they backed slowly away, and

she bent her head to her baby and seemed to say, "Thank you so much!

You understand, and I am very grateful to you."

"I _am_ so glad we saw them. I like the island better than ever I did

before," said The Girl. "What a dear little thing it was! And she was

just delightful," and all day long she kept referring to them and to

her joy at the sight of them.

They went on again, mile after mile, and whenever he glanced at her,

her face was still alight with happiness, and unconscious smiles

rippled over it in tune with her thoughts. So inborn and unfailing is

the mother-feeling in all true women.

"Now, if you wish to bathe, here is a good place. I will strike across

to the other shore and will come back in about an hour. Don't go too

far out!" and he strode away across the hummocks.

Under cover of the nearest sandhill she loosed her slender garments,

and sped like a sunbeam across the beach and into the water; and her

face, as it came up from the kiss of the sea, was like a sweet

blush-rose all beaded with morning dew, than which no fairer thing will

you find. And as she swam and dived and splashed in the lucent green

water, like a lovely white seal, her bodily enjoyment and her mental

exhilaration flung wide her arms at times, as though she would clasp

all Nature's joys to her white breast, and her eyes shone with a

brighter light than had the mother-seal's, and a seal's eyes are

deeply, beautifully tender and bright.

She laughed aloud at times, though none but herself could hear it, in

the pure physical joy of living and being so very much alive. She was

happier than she had ever been in all her life before. And one time,

as she lay afloat with her arms outspread, she looked up at the pale

sun in the thin gray sky, and all inconsequently said, "Yes--he is

good. He is good. He is good," and her face was golden-rosier than

ever when she was conscious that she had said it aloud.

She was sitting in the side of the sandhill, combing her hair with her

fingers, when she heard his distant hail. And she climbed the hill and

waved to him that he might come.

"I don't need to ask if you enjoyed your bathe," he said, as he came

up. "I can see it in your face."

"It was delightful. I would like to bathe every day."

"Two days ago?" he laughed.

"No, days like this. Oh, it _was_ so good! And now I am hungry. Let

us eat."

So they sat in the wire grass of the hill-top and ate their frugal

meal, she with her wonderful hair all astream, the ends spread wide to

dry on the sand; and he, clean, and strong, and brown, as fine a figure

of a man as she had ever met, though his raiment was nothing to boast

of. And he said to himself, "She is the most wonderful girl I have

ever seen. I would like to kiss her hair, her hands, her feet."

And she, to herself,--"He is good. He is good. He is good."

And, buried deep in both their minds, yet fully alive, was the thought

that it might be that all their lives would have to be passed on that

lean bank of sand--together.

XL

On their way back, Wulf lingered behind for a moment or two and came

along presently with rabbits enough for their requirements, but did not

obtrude them on her notice.

"It has been a day of delight," she said, as they drew to their ship.

"Let us do it again.... I wonder if that man has got home."

"Not yet. I can see his raft on the spit. Just as well we're here

before him."

"If only he were not here at all----"

"Even the original Paradise had its serpent."

"This one cannot beguile this woman at all events."

It was almost dark when they saw Macro's laden raft lumbering slowly

across to the 'Jane and Mary.'

"He won't starve," commented The Girl.

"Nor go dry. I see at least half a dozen kegs there. He's making

provision for bad weather. The gale may blow up again during the

night. See the birds whirling about over there."

"Will you have to watch again?"

"Safer so, though the chances are the kegs will keep him quiet for a

time. He's probably been on short allowance the last day or two."

"It is monstrous that you should have to. I wish----" and the petulant

stamp of her stout little brogue conveyed no suggestion of a blessing.

"Time may work for us," he said quietly. "He is our thorn in the

flesh----"

"He's a whole axe if you give him the chance."

"I won't, I promise you. I cannot afford to give him any chances," and

she knew that in that his thought was wholly for her.

Wulf dutifully patrolled his deck when it grew dark, though he

acknowledged to himself that the precaution was probably unnecessary,

for this night at all events. Still, he was there to protect The Girl

and he would suffer no risks.

It was possibly the distant sight of him, tramping doggedly to and fro

in the wan moonlight, that set Macro's rum-heated passions on fire.

Wulf heard him spating curses as he tumbled over on to his raft and

came splashing across. He went quietly to the companion-way and closed

the door, then picked up his axe and stood waiting, with a somewhat

quickened heart at the thought that the next few minutes might end the

matter one way or the other.

"---- ---- ---- ---- you, you white-livered skunk! Come out and fight

for her like a man if you want her," was the mate's rough challenge,

supplemented by a broadside of oaths, as he drew near.

Wulf stood looking quietly down at him. Words were sheer waste.

"D'ye hear me? Come down an' fight it out like a' man, an' best man

takes her, ---- ---- ---- ---- ---- you!"

He bumped roughly against the side and picked up his axe. Curses

foamed out of him in a ceaseless torrent, and he made as though he

would come swarming over.

"Keep off," said Wulf. "If you try to come aboard I'll cut you down."

"Come down then and fight it out if you're half a man, ---- ---- ----

---- you! What right have you to her, I'd like to know, ---- ---- ----

---- ----!"--he picked up his oar and whirled it round at Wulf's head

and it splintered on the hard-wood rail.

"Get back to your ship, man, and don't make a fool of yourself," said

Wulf. "I won't fight you. If you try to come on board here I'll make

an end of you."

"Ye skunk, ye! Ye ---- ---- ---- white-livered cowardly skunk!"--etc.

etc. etc.--to all of which Wulf made no reply, which provoked the

furious one more than any words he could have flung at him.

He remained there, hurling abuse and invective at the steady-faced man

up above, till the night air cooled the boiling in his brain. Then he

seized his splintered oar and thrashed away home. Wulf quietly resumed

his sentry-go, watched till all was quiet on the 'Jane and Mary,' and

then went down.

To his surprise The Girl was sitting by the fire. He had supposed her

in bed, had hoped she was fast asleep and had heard nothing of the

bombardment.

"He has gone?" she asked.

"Yes, he has gone home to bed. I was hoping you were asleep."

"Asleep! ... And you did not kill him?"

"He gave me no chance. He invited me on to his raft for a fight----"

"I heard it all."

"I'm sorry. He is hardly suitable for a lady's ears."

"I feel myself a terrible burden to you."

"But you are not. Very much the reverse. You are----" he began

impulsively, and stopped short. It was too soon to tell all that she

was to him.

"I am a bone of contention. I bring you in peril of your life----"

"And I thank God I am here to protect you. Now, take my advice and go

to bed. I will bring my blankets and lie at the foot of the stairs

here."

XLI

The next day passed without any sign of the mate, beyond the thin blue

smoke that floated up from his hatchway.

Wulf surmised that he was making up his leeway in the matter of food

and drink, and would probably not be over-eager for battle for the time

being. Nevertheless he relaxed no whit of his vigilance, and after

watching on deck for half the night slept the rest at the foot of the

companion-way as before.

Contrary to his expectations, the gale did not work itself up again,

but the sky was still low and dark and full of thin smoky clouds

hurrying along towards the north-east, and he was not at all sure that

they had done with it yet.

On the following day, to their great satisfaction, Macro set off early

for the wreckage, and when they had watched him out of sight they went

ashore for a ramble, and to get water and fresh meat.

The Girl must of course make straight for the place where they had met

Mrs Seal and her baby, but, to her great disappointment, there was not

a sign of them.

"And I did so want to see them again," said she. "She would have known

us by this time and not been afraid. Perhaps she would even have let

me touch it."

"They are much happier in the water," he said, with a smile, for her

face made him think of a child who had lost its toy.

She would not be satisfied till they had searched far along the shore,

but nothing came of it, and she was disconsolate. The day was not

cheerful and she would not bathe. They filled their buckets, and he

caught some rabbits and they returned early to the ship.

Her humours appealed to him, even though he could not possibly

understand them completely. Everything she did, and the way she did

it, and indeed everything connected with her, was coming to have a

vital interest for him.

He could not know how the anguished fear in that mother-seal's eyes had

touched her heart, how she had yearned to pick up that sleek little

baby and fondle it in her arms, how she had been hoping and longing to

see them again, how great her disappointment had been. She felt bereft

and went off early to bed.

Wulf lay smoking and thinking till night fell, and then went up to do

sentry. He paced the deck till midnight, saw no sign of movement

aboard the 'Jane and Mary,' and went below and was soon sound asleep.

He woke once with a start, believing he had heard a footstep. Then a

ripple clop-clopped against the side of the ship and he lay down again

satisfied.

He was awakened again by a hand gripping his shoulder, and, starting

up, found a ghostly white figure bending over him, and The Girl's voice

in his ear,

"There is something wrong. Can you not smell it?"

For a moment he imagined her dreaming. Then his nose warned him that

she was right. There was something unusual in the atmosphere.

Even when their fire was no more than a heap of gray ashes with a

golden core, and one of their lee ports was open, the faint, not

unpleasant smell of wood smoke hung about the cabin. But this was

quite different,--an acrid, pungent smell as of burning fat. He

glanced at the fire and raked his mind for an explanation of it.

"It is worse in my room," she said, and he went quietly to the sacred

little passage off which her sleeping-apartment opened.

Yes, it was worse there, and what it meant he could not imagine.

"You have not been burning anything?" he asked.

"Nothing. The horrid smell wakened me."

He turned and ran up the companion-steps, with a vague idea that

something in the hold might have caught fire, though how that could be

was beyond him. There was nothing there but their reserve stores, and

certainly nothing that could take fire of its own accord. Besides, it

was two days since he had been down there, and he never took a light,

as the hatch, when shoved askew, gave all that was needed.

He fumbled the bolts of the little doors open, but the doors seemed

jammed. He pushed. They remained firm. He made sure of the bolts

again and put his shoulder to the doors. They resisted all his efforts.

"Good Lord!" he said, in something of a panic. "What's all this?"

He brushed hastily down past The Girl again, groped for his boots by

the side of his blankets, pulled them on, and picked up his axe, with

the certainty in his mind that something wrong was toward and it was as

well to be fully armed.

Then he smashed away at the woodwork till it was in fragments, and he

could climb up through the bristling splinters and over an unexpected

plank that had somehow got across the doors and prevented their opening.

The first thing he saw when he got on deck was a faint glow about the

main-hatch opening, and smoke pouring out of it. Running to it, a

glance showed him a fierce fire roaring somewhere down below. A cry of

dismay at his side told him that The Girl had scrambled up after him.

"The buckets," he jerked, and she sped back, tearing skin and garment

on the splintered doors, while he sought and found a length of rope.

His voice was steady again, though his hands shook with agitation, as

he slipped one end of the rope through the handle of the bucket and

held the two ends, while the bucket hung in the bight and so could be

released instantly by loosing one end of the rope. He filled both

buckets and with a hasty, "Hand them down to me and fill again as I

throw them up," lowered himself into the hold.

The fire was burning fiercely against the after starboard bulkhead,

which, as it happened, was the one nearest The Girl's sleeping-cabin.

Their lighter stores had been moved from their usual places and heaped

about it and were blazing furiously. The bulkhead itself was on fire,

but had apparently only just caught.

Wulf flung his first bucketful at it, and it answered with a hiss like

a snarling curse, and showed a red-starred black blotch amid the

crawling yellow flames.

He tossed the empty bucket up on deck, and gave the bulkhead another

dose with his second, and as he tossed that one up the first came

dangling down filled again.

"Good girl!" he shouted exultantly, to reassure her. "Plenty more! We

shall do it all right," and the full buckets came dangling down as fast

as he could empty them.

A score or so of bucketfuls ended it, and he climbed up, black with

smoke and streaked with steam and sweat, and very grateful to be in

fresh air again.

The night was just thinning towards the dawn. The Girl was sitting on

the coaming of the hatch in a state of collapse, her wet garment

clinging clammily about her, her head in her hands, her slender figure

shaken with convulsive sobs. His anger boiled furiously at thought of

the malice that had planned her suffering--her possible death. Love

and pity swelled his heart for her. She looked so utterly forlorn and

broken with the fight.

"It is all right, dear!"--he could not help it, it slipped out in spite

of him. "Come away down to the cabin. You are shivering. You are wet

through and torn to pieces. You have done splendidly, but it was an

upsetting piece of business all round. Come!" and he put his arm under

hers and drew her up.

She was so limp, however, that he had almost to carry her, and the feel

of her unconscious sobs under his enfolding arm quickened his blood

again.

At the companion-doors he had to release her and go back for his axe.

A stout plank had been cunningly bound against the doors by a rope tied

round the companion. His lips tightened sternly as he chopped the rope

through and the plank fell to the deck.

He carried her gently down and laid her on his blankets, put some

sticks on the fire and blew them into flame, and set on the kettle,

which was fortunately full. By the time he had made some coffee and

dashed it with rum, she had recovered herself and was sitting up in the

blankets with one drawn closely about her.

"That was an unnerving business," he said, as he handed her her cup.

"I'm afraid you had the worst of it. You have a lot of scratches--and

your hands! Oh, I am truly sorry----"

"It was the rope," she said quietly, looking at the rasped rawness of

them. "It was all horrible. How did it get on fire?"

"It was a deliberate attempt on the part of that wretch to make an end

of us."

"No!"--and she gazed at him in blankest amazement.

"Without doubt. He blocked our doors here with a plank and a rope, and

then started the fire down in the hold."

"Is such wickedness possible?"

"To a madman living chiefly on rum anything is possible."

"He deserves to die."

"Richly. He deserves no mercy. The thought of cutting him down with

an axe was horrible. But after this----"

"There is no safety for us while he lives."

"I'm afraid there isn't."

Sleep, he knew, would brace her unstrung nerves better than any thing

else, so, after bathing her hands in luke-warm water and anointing them

with some of the rendered pork fat she kept for her cooking, he induced

her to go and lie down in her bunk. Her other scratches she said she

would attend to when she could see them properly.

Then he went on deck and drew up a bucket of water and washed off his

own stains, and afterwards smoked many pipes as he pondered the

unpleasantly weighty subject of Macro. For that matters could go on

like this was out of the question.

XLII

He had cakes made and breakfast all ready long before she came out of

her room, still visibly feeling the effects of the night's proceedings.

"I am stiff and sore all over," she said, lowering herself carefully to

her seat on the floor. "And you?"

"Sorer in mind than in body."

"What will you do?"

"I shall go over presently and tell him that now he must look out for

himself. I will end him, the first chance I get, as I would a wild

beast."

"He will try to kill you on the spot."

"He won't get the chance. I'll see to that."

"I shall go with you."

"No."

"Yes, indeed. My heart would thump itself to pieces, waiting here all

alone."

"He is dangerous, and he has a vile tongue when it runs away with

him----"

"I do not care. It is no more dangerous for me than for you.

No--no--no!"--as he was about to argue the matter,--"I cannot be left

behind," and nothing he could say could move her.

They saw no sign of life on the 'Jane and Mary,' not so much as a whiff

of smoke from the companion-hatch.

"Perhaps he fled when he saw his horrid scheme had failed," suggested

The Girl hopefully.

"Not very likely, I'm afraid, but we can go across and see. Won't you

be good now and take my advice----"

"I'll be good, but I won't stop here alone."

So perforce he took her with him on the raft, and paddled quietly

across to the other ship.

But before they reached it she lifted a warning finger for him to stop

paddling and listen. And on their anxious ears there broke the

strangest medley of sounds conceivable, and chilled them in the

hearing. Wild bursts of laughter, cut short by yells of rage or sudden

screams, as of one in mortal fear,--hoarse shouts, torrents of oaths,

dull flailing blows which sounded like fists on wood, and, through it

all, the never-ceasing yells and screams.

"He has gone mad," panted The Girl, very white in the face, and looked

at him with wide anxious eyes.

"Delirium tremens,"--with an understanding nod. "He could stand more

than most, but a man cannot live on rum alone," and he paddled slowly

towards the ship, his face knitted with doubts as to what he should do.

He was in two minds. If he left the man to himself he would inevitably

die in the end, for he had unlimited liquor on board and would turn to

it at once, like a hog to its mire, as soon as this bout ran its

course. On the other hand, every fragment of professional instinct in

him impelled him to the rescue.

Never in his life had he withheld aid from one in extremity. And yet

it seemed monstrously absurd--to drag a man back from death solely for

the purpose of letting him do his best to kill you, the first chance

that offered.

And he had more than himself to think for. Suppose he saved this

wretched man, and was worsted by him later on, what of The Girl? She

would have reason enough to blame his pusillanimity, and he himself

would curse it with his last breath.

But was it fair fighting--to see your enemy in a hole and make no

effort to save him? Old-time Chivalry would never even have argued the

matter. It would have helped the enemy out, handed him his weapons,

and courteously awaited the renewal of the combat. Ah--times were

changed.... And this man was compound of treachery and malice.

Thoughts such as these whirled through his brain before he had covered

the short space to the other ship.

"Wait here!" he said to The Girl, and climbed through the well-known

hole in the side,--and she followed him close in spite of his frowning

objection. She had not come thus far to be out of the critical moment.

He ran down to the cabin, and went straight to the mate's door. The

dreadful sounds,--the shouts and yells and cries of fear, the furious

oaths, the wild thumping blows--filled the cabin with horrors. Even in

that anxious moment The Girl was cognisant of a dreary, dirty,

repulsive look about it which had not been there before. It was more

like the den of a wild beast than a living-room. Some of the silken

hangings were torn down, the one or two that were left hung by single

pegs. It looked as though a maniac had chased his mad fancies round

the room and sought them behind the draperies.

Wulf, gripping his axe, opened the door into the passage, looked in,

then went in. And The Girl drew near, to be at hand in case of need,

and stood shuddering.

"Keep off! Keep off, ye blank-eyed deevils! ---- ---- ----! Wi' your

bloody beaks and tearing claws.... Keep off! Keep off ---- ---- ----

ye!" and the black fists, all bruised and bleeding, whirled and struck

at the roof and sides of the bunk as he fought the birds the rum had

bred in his brain. Then, as they beat him down in a pestiferous crowd,

he gave a shrill scream and doubled himself over in a heap in his bunk,

with his hands clasped over his head to save it from their attacks.

Then up again, shouting and fighting for dear life, and down flat again

with a scream, cowering in uttermost extremity of terror, while oaths

dribbled out of him like water out of a spout.

Wulf came out and closed the door, and pushed her brusquely up the

stairs to the deck.

"You should not have come down," he said sternly. "This is no place

for you," and then, seeing how white her face was, he added more

gently, "There is no danger--except to him. He is fighting for his

life with the birds. I can do nothing for him--except get rid of all

his rum. He would turn to it the moment he comes round, and it is

poison in his present state."

He went down again and rooted about everywhere, found two kegs in the

cabin under the torn hangings, and another in Macro's room, with a

spigot in it. He carried them up on deck, staved in the heads with his

axe, and emptied them overboard. In the main-hold he found three more

and did the same with them.

"When he gets through, his throat will be like a lime-kiln. There is a

bucket of water down there. I will put in it the coffee we left from

breakfast and leave it in his cabin. It will be the best thing for him

if he will drink it. But he'll be crazy for rum---- I'll take you

back and get the coffee. I'm sorry you came."

There was strong disapproval in his tone, but she did not resent it.

After all, his thought was entirely for her in the matter.

"You're sure he won't fly at you?" she asked anxiously.

"He's much too busy with the birds. Besides, I shall not touch him or

speak to him. It is best to leave him to himself. We will leave some

food by him also," and she obediently let herself down before him on to

the raft.

"It does seem absurd----" she began impulsively, as they joggled along.

"To keep him alive so that he may try again to kill us,"--he nodded.

"I know. But there it is, as the country-folk say. However, he won't

live long if he keeps on at the rum. As soon as he gets better he'll

go straight out to the pile to get more, unless he's too weak. It's

terribly wasteful work, what he's at, and no food to work on."

"Whether it's wrong or not, I cannot help wishing he would die," she

said passionately. "It is too dreadful."

"I don't want his blood on my hands if I can help it," he said briefly.

But he felt as she did.

XLIII

After carrying supplies to the mate, he came back for her, and they

went ashore for fresh water, and he providently secured a couple more

rabbits.

The Girl was very quiet, depressed, and very unlike her usual bright

self. But he was not surprised. Her anxiety for the future was enough

to account for it, and there was, besides, the reaction from the

strenuous upsetting through which they had just passed.

Each morning he went across to see how the sick man was getting on, and

she let him go alone, but followed him with anxious eyes, and stood in

the bows watching till she saw him safely on his way back.

On the third day they took advantage of the enemy's enforced inactivity

to go out to the pile and make good the losses caused by the fire. And

all the time they were away The Girl was in a state of dire anxiety

lest he should have discovered their absence and got across and fired

their ship. But to her great relief it was there all right when they

got back, and showed no signs of visitation.

On the fourth morning Wulf found his patient sufficiently recovered to

be spoken to plainly as to the future, and he did not mince matters.

While he spoke, the mate lay watching him through almost closed eyes,

just one narrow line between the heavy lids catching the light from the

port and imparting a singularly sinister look to the haggard face. The

veiled eyes watched him cautiously, charged with what?--suspicion?

hatred? treachery? All these, Wulf imagined. But they gave no sign.

They were like the eyes of a snake, of a caged beast being rated by its

keeper.

"Your dastardly attempt on us failed," said Wulf, to the steely glint

of the black soul behind the narrowed lids. "And now,--understand!

You are outside the pale. Leave us alone and we leave you alone.

Interfere further with us and I will kill you as I would a dangerous

beast. Now you are warned, and your blood be on your own head."

The other made no sign. The narrow gleam of the dark eyes out of the

rigid impassivity of the dark face was more bodeful than a torrent of

curses.

As he left the ship, Wulf picked up and took with him the only two axes

he could find. Magnanimity had its limits, but it was wasted here.

"Well?" asked The Girl anxiously, when he returned.

"He is almost himself again, but very much weakened of course. I have

given him final warning that if he molests us further I shall kill him."

"It would have been simpler to let him die."

"Simpler--yes, but I could not bring myself to it. We'll fight him

fair if fight we must."

The weather still kept dull and gray and heavy, with a reserve of

menace and malice in it akin to that of the mate. The sky was veiled

with ever-hurrying clouds. The sea was smooth, with something of

treachery in its sullen quietude, as though it were only biding its

time to break out again and do its worst.

The following morning, to their surprise, they saw Macro start out

early for the wreckage. And Wulf, watching him grimly, said, "He's

after his poison. And now he'll probably drink himself to death. It's

amazing the hold it takes on a man. He won't trouble us much longer."

They spent the day ashore, but the vivacity and enjoyment of that other

day were awanting. Perhaps it was the cheerless weather,--the physical

and mental strain of these later days,--the thought that their devil

was loosed again,--anyhow, a subtle sense of foreboding. Whatever it

was it weighed upon their spirits, and a long tramp up the beach, in

forlorn hope of meeting Mistress Seal again, did not succeed in raising

them.

"What is it, I wonder?" said The Girl. "Something is going to happen,

I know. I have felt like this before, and always something dreadful

has followed."

"But you never knew what, beforehand? Perhaps you have the gift of

prevision,--the second sight."

"I may have, but it doesn't go so far as to explain things. I just

feel anxious for it to be over and done with."

"What?"

"What's coming, whatever it is."

"We must be extra careful for a time, till you are sure the trouble is

past," he said, with a smile, but he felt the weight on his spirits as

she did.

Physically, however, their long tramp did them good, and they returned

home with famous appetites.

"I wonder if he's back yet," said The Girl, as they were paddling to

the ship. There was no doubt as to where her fears centred.

"I don't see the raft. We'll see better from the deck," and when they

had climbed aboard they looked at once towards the spit and saw the

mate's raft still lying there. He was not back yet.

They ate, and rested, and until the darkness swallowed the spit, the

raft still lay there.

"He's staying late," said Wulf. "Maybe he's broached a keg and taken

too much. It would be what I would expect from him under the

circumstances."

He patrolled the deck, after she had gone to bed, listening for the

sound of the mate's oar. But he heard nothing, and at last made up his

mind that the fellow had probably waited too late and had made himself

snug out there for the night, though, for himself, the idea would not

have commended itself. There was little danger, however, of his coming

across in the dark, so he went down and slept soundly at the foot of

the companion-steps.

All the next day they were on the look-out for him, but he did not come.

Wulf had told her of his idea that he had probably found means of

passing the night out there, in which case he would no doubt put in

another long day rooting for treasure. So that it was not until night

had fallen again, and the raft still lay waiting on the spit, that he

decided in his own mind that something was wrong.

"I shall go across to the pile in the morning to find out," he said, as

they sat by the fire.

"I shall go with you."

"I would very much sooner you stopped here."

"And suppose it was all a trick on his part. He may be hiding in the

sandhills. He would watch you go and then come out on me. No," with a

very decided shake of the head, "I go with you."

So, in the morning, they set off, walked along the spit to the western

point and waded and swam to the wreckage, keeping a keen look-out for

first sight of the mate.

"Those hideous birds!" panted The Girl, as the skirling, squabbling

crew swooped and hovered over the far end of the pile.

"We'll keep as far away from them as possible," and they crept up at a

distance, and he proceeded to make a raft, since a supply of further

stores was needed to make good their losses by the fire.

So far they had come upon no signs of Macro. From the top of the pile

they looked carefully all round, but beyond the usual smashed boxes and

cases there was nothing to show that he had ever been there.

"Where on earth can he have got to?" said Wulf.

"Perhaps he's fallen into the sea, or down into some crack," said The

Girl, not unhopefully.

"It is always possible. He might not recognise how the fever had

pulled him down."

They loaded their raft without any interference from the birds, beyond

the blood-curdling clamour of their angry disputations. They were

quite ready to go, but still the whereabouts of the mate was a mystery,

and Wulf was loth to leave it at that. He might be lying broken in

some crack. If he had come to some sudden end it would be best to know

it, if that were possible, so that their fears--on their own account as

well as his--might be at rest. On the other hand it was quite

impossible to rake over the whole pile. That would be a good month's

work.

A grim idea shot suddenly into Wulf's mind, as he stood looking keenly

round from the highest point he could clamber up to. It came at sight

of the birds whirling and clamouring round the end of the pile.

Suppose ... oh,--horrible! ... yet it might very well be.

"What is it?" asked The Girl anxiously, for his lips and face had

tightened ominously at his thought.

"Nothing, maybe. I'm going over there to see...."

"Can you see anything of him?"

"No."

He poled the raft along the edge of the pile towards the hovering cloud

of birds.

"Now, I'm going to swim along here and climb up. I want to see what

they're at. You will be quite safe here."

She glanced at him with a startled look, fathoming his grim thought

instantly, and it blanched her face for a moment.

"They may turn on you," she jerked.

"They seem too busy."

He let himself down into the water and swam noiselessly along the side

of the pile, and she stood watching anxiously.

When he reached the outskirts of the whirling cloud he found a sodden

crack, and drew himself in, and disappeared from her sight. Her heart

kicked till it felt like choking her. Her face was strained, her eyes

wide and fearful. She felt horribly alone.

Inside his niche, Wulf climbed cautiously, the curdling clamour very

close. Now and again a feathery fiend with eyes like glass and

reddened beak swooped past his hiding-place, with a shrill cry of

warning to the rest at sight of him, or it might be of invitation.

He got his eyes above the top at last, in spite of pointed attentions

from angry outsiders, scanned the spot where the shrieking crew centred

most thickly, and dreamed of what he got a glimpse of there for weeks

afterwards.

---- The remnants of what had been a man, all pecked and scratched and

torn to shreds,--white, clean-picked bones showing through fragments of

his clothing, myriads of squawking birds, of all shapes and sizes,

clustered on it like bees on a comb, hustling and fighting one another

with shrill screams and thrashing wings and red beaks. It was only

when, through some unusually bitter struggle, the mass writhed and rose

for a moment, only to settle more closely the next, that he could see.

Not far from the body was a broached keg which the birds had overturned

in their strife. It explained everything to him.

He dropped back down his cleft, sick at the sight, grateful for the

clean feel of the water. He plunged his head under and spat out the

feeling of it all. Then he made his way quietly back to The Girl, and

she had no need to ask what he had found. He nodded, and climbed up on

to the raft and pushed quickly away.

"You are sure he is dead?" she asked, after a time.

"Horribly dead," and told her no more till later, and then not very

much. "It is strange to think of it all," he said, in conclusion. "He

always feared the birds. In his delirium it was the birds he was

fighting. And the birds got him at last."

The manner of his death shocked and horrified them. But the knowledge

that the menace of him had passed out of their lives was untellable

relief.