Edith had said to him. "And greet him from me--greet him
heartily. Don't forget that, Brandelaar."

. . . . . . .

The skipper's two men, who had been lying fast asleep below deck in the
cutter, were considerably astonished and certainly far from pleased at
the idea of the nocturnal passage. But a few words from the skipper in a
language unintelligible to Edith speedily removed their discontent.
They now readily set to work to set sail and weigh anchor. The skipper's
powerful hands grasped the helm; the small, strongly-built vessel tacked
a little and then, heeling over, shot out into the darkness.

It passed close by the Gefion, and had it by accident been shown up
by the electric light which from time to time searched the disturbed
surface of the water, the nocturnal trip would in any case have
experienced a very disagreeable interruption. But chance favoured
the rash undertaking. No signal was made, no shout raised from the
guardship, and the lights of Flushing were soon lost in the darkness.

Since the start Edith had been standing by the mast, looking fixedly
backwards to the place where she was leaving everything which had
hitherto given all its value and meaning to her life. The skipper and
his two men, whom the varying winds kept fully occupied with their
sails, did not seem to trouble about her, and it was not till a suddenly
violent squall came on that Van dem Bosch shouted to her that she had
better go below, where she would at least be protected against the wind
and weather.

But Edith did not stir. For her mind, racked by all the torments
of infinite despair, the raging of the storm, the noise of the rain
rattling down, and the hissing splash of the waves as they dashed
against the planks of the boat, made just the right music. The tumult
of the night around her harmonised so exactly with the tumult within her
that she almost felt it a relief. The close confinement of a low cabin
would have been unbearable. She could only hold out by drinking in
deep draughts of air saturated with the briny odour of the sea, and by
exposing her face to the storm, the rain, and the foam of the waves. It
was a kind of physical struggle with the brute forces of Nature, and
its stirring effect upon her nerves acted as a tonic to a mind lacerated
with sorrow.

She had no thought for time or space. Only the hurricane-like rising
of the storm, the increasingly violent breaking of the waves, and the
wilder rocking of the boa