n
found us.

CHAPTER XXVI

A FLOATING COFFIN

The laboring boat rested so low in the water it was only as we were
thrown upward on the crest of a wave that I could gain any view about
through the pallid light of the dawn. At such brief instants my eyes
swept the far horizon, to discern nothing except the desolate, endless
expanse of sea. A more dismal, gloomy view surely never unrolled
itself before the eye of man. Everywhere the gray monotony of rolling
waves, slowly stretching out into greater distance as the light
strengthened, yet bringing into view no other object. It was all a
desolate, restless waste in the midst of which we tossed, while above
hung masses of dark clouds obscuring the sky. We were but a hurtling
speck between the gray above and the gray below. How tiny the boat
looked as my glance ranged forward with this memory of our
surroundings still fresh in mind. The crest of the surges swept to the
edge of the gunwale, sending the spray flying inboard. Occasionally
drops stung my cheek and all the thwarts forward were wet with
drizzle. The negro, Sam, alone was awake, baling steadily, his face
turned aft, although scarcely glancing up from his labor. He looked
tired and worn, a strange green tinge to his black face, as the dim
light struck it. The others were curled up in the bottom of the craft,
soaked with spray, yet sleeping soundly. The wind had lost its
steadiness, coming now in gusts that flapped the sail loudly against
the mast, but failed to awaken the slumberers. Depressed by the sight,
my eyes sought the face of the girl whose head yet rested against my
shoulder.

She lay there with tightly closed eyes, the long lashes outlined
against her cheek, breathing softly. Between lips slightly parted her
white teeth gleamed as she smiled from pleasant dreams. It was a
beautiful face into which I looked, the cheeks faintly tinted, the
chin firm, the rounded throat white as snow--the face of a pure, true
woman, yet retaining its appearance of girlish freshness. Whatever of
hardship and sorrow the past days had brought her, had been erased by
sleep, and she lay then utterly forgetful of danger and distress. And
she loved me--loved in spite of all dividing us--and in her rare
courage had told me so. The memory thrilled my blood, and I felt my
arm close more tightly about her, as I gazed eagerly down into the
unconscious features. She was actually mine--mine; not even death
could rob me of the