aught a
glimpse of the coast, and above the gale I could faintly hear the
muffled pounding of the surf.

The spar drifted on for several minutes, now high in the air, now deep
in the greenish hollow of the sea. Flora was perfectly conscious, and
partly able to help herself. We were in such peril that I could offer
her no words of comfort, and she seemed to understand the meaning of my
ominous stillness.

"Are we going to be drowned?" she asked.

"We are in God's hands, Flora," I answered huskily. "The shore is very
close, and we are drifting straight in. A tremendous surf is breaking
and it will be a miracle if we live through it."

"Then we will die together, Denzil," the brave girl whispered; and as
she looked up at me I read in her eyes the confession of her heart--the
pure depth of a love that was all my own.

CHAPTER X.

THE DAWN OF DAY.

Flora's words, and the meaning glance that accompanied them, melted the
resolve I had made but a few ours before. There was no reason, indeed,
why I should keep silence at such a time. I believed that we were both
in the jaws of death, with not the faintest chance of escape. To lift
the cloud that was between us--to snatch what bliss was possible out of
our last moments--would be a sweet and pardonable thing. So, while the
spar bore us lightly amid the curling waves, I drew the girl more
tightly to my breast with one arm, and pressed kisses on her lips and
eyes, on the salty, dripping hair that clustered about her forehead.

"My darling, I love you!" I whispered passionately in her ear. "You must
let me speak; I can hide it no longer. I lost my heart weeks ago, but
honor held me silent."

What more I said I do not recall, but I know that I poured forth all my
burning, pent-up affection. When I had finished, Flora lifted her
tear-dimmed eyes to my face and smiled; she put a trembling arm about my
neck and kissed me.

"And I love you, Denzil," she said softly. "Oh, I am so glad that I can
tell you; it seems to take away the sting of death. I would have hidden
the truth from you; I would have kept my promise and married Griffith
Hawke. But now--now it is different. In death we belong to each other.
You made me love you, Denzil--you were so kind, so good, so brave!"

"If we could only live, and be happy together!" I replied hoarsely.

"Hush! God knows best," she whispered. "In life we must have been apart