used to be," she answered. "I was never brave till I knew you.
It is you who have made me brave."

"Nor I, until I knew you," I answered.

She gave me a quick look, and again I caught that dancing, tremulous
light and something more in her eyes. But it was only for the moment.
Then she smiled.

"It must have been the conditions," she said; but I knew she was wrong,
and I wondered if she likewise knew. Then the wind came, fair and fresh,
and the boat was soon labouring through a heavy sea toward the island.
At half-past three in the afternoon we passed the south-western
promontory. Not only were we hungry, but we were now suffering from
thirst. Our lips were dry and cracked, nor could we longer moisten them
with our tongues. Then the wind slowly died down. By night it was dead
calm and I was toiling once more at the oars--but weakly, most weakly.
At two in the morning the boat's bow touched the beach of our own inner
cove and I staggered out to make the painter fast. Maud could not stand,
nor had I strength to carry her. I fell in the sand with her, and, when
I had recovered, contented myself with putting my hands under her
shoulders and dragging her up the beach to the hut.

The next day we did no work. In fact, we slept till three in the
afternoon, or at least I did, for I awoke to find Maud cooking dinner.
Her power of recuperation was wonderful. There was something tenacious
about that lily-frail body of hers, a clutch on existence which one could
not reconcile with its patent weakness.

"You know I was travelling to Japan for my health," she said, as we
lingered at the fire after dinner and delighted in the movelessness of
loafing. "I was not very strong. I never was. The doctors recommended
a sea voyage, and I chose the longest."

"You little knew what you were choosing," I laughed.

"But I shall be a different women for the experience, as well as a
stronger woman," she answered; "and, I hope a better woman. At least I
shall understand a great deal more life."

Then, as the short day waned, we fell to discussing Wolf Larsen's
blindness. It was inexplicable. And that it was grave, I instanced his
statement that he intended to stay and die on Endeavour Island. When he,
strong man that he was, loving life as he did, accepted his death, it was
plain that he was troubled by something more than mere blindness. There
had been his terrific headaches, and we were agreed that it was some sort
of b