had known war, danger, seen death near,
had obtained evidently the devotion of that man. The occurrences of the
afternoon had been strange in themselves, but what struck her artistic
sense was the vigour of their presentation. They outlined themselves
before her memory with the clear simplicity of some immortal legend.
They were mysterious, but she felt certain they were absolutely true.
They embodied artless and masterful feelings; such, no doubt, as had
swayed mankind in the simplicity of its youth. She envied, for a moment,
the lot of that humble and obscure sister. Nothing stood between that
girl and the truth of her sensations. She could be sincerely courageous,
and tender and passionate and--well--ferocious. Why not ferocious? She
could know the truth of terror--and of affection, absolutely, without
artificial trammels, without the pain of restraint.

Thinking of what such life could be Mrs. Travers felt invaded by that
inexplicable exaltation which the consciousness of their physical
capacities so often gives to intellectual beings. She glowed with a
sudden persuasion that she also could be equal to such an existence; and
her heart was dilated with a momentary longing to know the naked truth
of things; the naked truth of life and passion buried under the growth
of centuries.

She glowed and, suddenly, she quivered with the shock of coming to
herself as if she had fallen down from a star. There was a sound of
rippling water and a shapeless mass glided out of the dark void she
confronted. A voice below her feet said:

"I made out your shape--on the sky." A cry of surprise expired on her
lips and she could only peer downward. Lingard, alone in the brig's
dinghy, with another stroke sent the light boat nearly under the yacht's
counter, laid his sculls in, and rose from the thwart. His head and
shoulders loomed up alongside and he had the appearance of standing upon
the sea. Involuntarily Mrs. Travers made a movement of retreat.

"Stop," he said, anxiously, "don't speak loud. No one must know. Where
do your people think themselves, I wonder? In a dock at home? And you--"

"My husband is not on board," she interrupted, hurriedly.

"I know."

She bent a little more over the rail.

"Then you are having us watched. Why?"

"Somebody must watch. Your people keep such a good look-out--don't they?
Yes. Ever since dark one of my boats has been dodging astern here, in
the deep water. I swore to myself I would never s