ht you would be glad I had brought away the bright stones," she
said. "But if they are unlucky I will cast them into the sea."

"Nay, Melannie," I answered. "Keep them, for they will make you the
richest among the women of your own country. But do not show them to
anyone or let it be known that you have them with you, should we fall
in with a passing ship, or they may cause our ruin, perhaps our death."
Melannie seemed to understand me, but her pleasure in the bright stones
had received a check since her display of them had brought a rebuke
from my lips.

CHAPTER XXIII

AT THE MERCY OF THE SEA

When morning broke on the day after our escape from the burning island
we shaped a course with the wind, for I had no fixed purpose, and our
only hope of returning to civilization lay in a chance meeting with
some passing vessel. Yet I knew how remote that chance would be. The
sea in these latitudes was not in the course of trade between any of
the countries of the known world, and voyages of discovery such as
those undertaken by Dirk Hartog and other navigators of the time were
few and far between. Still I conceived it to be my duty to make the
best use of the means which Providence had placed in my hands of
returning to home and friends, and as the cutter danced over the waves,
and the salt spray moistened our faces, I felt my spirits rise.

Melannie, in her new-found freedom, was like a happy child.

"Let us sail on for ever, Peter," she said. "I never want to put my
foot on land again."

I tried to tell her that we could not live long upon the ocean; that
our food and water would fail us; and that unless we fell in with a
ship, or landed upon some friendly island, our doom was sealed. But
Melannie refused to look upon the graver side of our situation, and
seemed so happy and contented that I did not like to spoil her
enjoyment with my dismal forebodings. Time enough, I thought, to meet
trouble when it comes. Meanwhile we continued our voyage as a pleasure
trip, eating the fruit we had brought with us when we felt hungry, and
quenching our thirst from the boat's water-tank, with no care for the
future.

During this time Van Luck resumed his former air of abstraction, which
I had noticed in him on board the "Arms of Amsterdam". For hours at a
time he would remain silent, looking across the sea with his hand
shading his eyes in the watchful attitude which had become habitual to
him during his solitary vigils at t