is bound
to rise again..."

Katrine shuddered. A moment before she had been exhausted with heat;
now hands and feet were icy cold. For the first time in her life she
was brought face to face with death, and the violent change of scene,
combined with the inability to do anything but stand still and watch,
made a hard test of endurance. She managed to keep quiet, to refrain
from the tears and sobs of the surrounding women, but she clung like a
child to Bedford's arms, and rested her head against his broad shoulder.

For the moment the action was as impersonal as if he had been a stone or
a log; her physical condition necessitated a prop; she clung to the
nearest support out of a natural, unthinking impulse, and just as
naturally, just as simply, he cradled her in his arms.

The suffocating moments crawled by, the while the onlookers held their
breath. The boat had reached the spot marked by the red flag, was
drifting slowly round and round, the men's faces bent low over the
water, but there came no sign of the white, waving arms; the dark,
ball-like head.

Katrine gasped a weak enquiry:

"I thought--_three times_? If it is one of the crew, surely he can
swim?"

Bedford made no reply. She raised her head, caught sight of a set face,
and cried again, with a still sharper edge of surprise:

"It is _not_ a sailor! A passenger then? Some one--we know?"

Her thoughts flew swiftly over the familiar forms. A jovial head of a
family, seated at her own table in the saloon; a young husband
assiduously waiting upon a pretty new wife; the handsome pursuer of
steamship flirtations,--one after another their figures rose before her.
These were all young, thoughtless, daring; a moment's recklessness
might have precipitated them to their fate. An hour ago, five minutes
ago, they had been nothing to her, less than nothing, now the mere tie
of humanity rent her heart at the thought of their peril. She lifted
her eyes to the face above her, panting breathless enquiries.

"Tell me! Tell me!"

"My--my dear girl," stammered the man huskily, "My poor girl--" He
passed his arm more firmly round her waist, "Yes! you know him, I did
not mean to tell you yet, but I am afraid you'll have to know! It's
Vernon Keith--"

"No! No!" Katrine fought with outstretched hands, striving to push him
away. She no longer needed to lean; the shock had strung her into
vitality, and a passionate denial of the tragic reversals of life. An