Mary Phillips had put down her trumpet, but now she raised it again to
her mouth, and I could see that she was going to make a great effort.
The distance between us had increased considerably since I came on
deck, and she had to speak against the wind.

With all the concentrated intensity which high-strung nerves could
give to a man who is trying to hear the one thing to him worth hearing
in the world, I listened. Had a wild beast fixed his claws and teeth
into me at the moment I would not have withdrawn my attention.

I heard the voice of Mary Phillips, faint, far away. I heard the words,
"Yes, but--" and the rest was lost. She must have known from my aspect
that her message did not reach me, for she tried again and again to
make herself heard.

The wind continued to blow, and the steamer continued to float and
float and float away. A wind had come up in the night. It had blown
Bertha near me; perhaps it had blown her very near me. She had not
known it, and I had not known it. Mary Phillips had not known it until
it was too late, and now that wind had blown her past me and was
blowing her away. For a time there was a flutter of a handkerchief,
but only one handkerchief, and then _La Fidelite_, with Bertha on
board, was blown away until she disappeared, and I never saw her
again.

All night I sat upon the deck of the _Sparhawk_, thinking, wondering,
and conjecturing. I was in a strange state of mind. I did not wonder or
conjecture whether Bertha's vessel would come back to me again; I did
not think of what I should do if it did come back. I did not think of
what I should do if it never came back. All night I thought, wondered,
and conjectured what Mary Phillips had meant by the word "but."

It was plain to me what "yes" had meant. My message had been heard, and
I knew Mary Phillips well enough to feel positively sure that having
received such a message under such circumstances she had given it to
Bertha. Therefore I had positive proof that Bertha knew that I loved
her. But what did the "but" mean?

It seemed to me that there were a thousand things that this word might
mean. It might mean that she was already engaged to be married. It
might mean that she had vowed never to marry. It might mean that she
disapproved of such words at such a time. I cannot repeat the tenth of
the meanings which I thought I might attach to this word. But the worst
thing that it could purport, the most terrible signification of all,