ves wove themselves into his fancies. He dreamed he was engulfed in
a murky tempest, He was tossing wildly in a shell of a boat, without
oars or sail. Sometimes green and smiling fields appeared close at
hand, only to be swallowed up in the murk again.

The noise was deafening. When he endeavoured to shout for aid, his
tongue was clamped to his jaw. Behind him was a terror worse than the
storm, and he dared not look around. It seemed to him that he
struggled for an infinity of time, a hopeless, heart-breaking struggle
against increasing odds.

Suddenly the sun broke through, cheering his heart. It was a sun that
came down close to him, warming him through and through. It was not a
sun. It was a face--a woman's face. At first it was a face he did not
know, but beautiful. Then it was Bela's face, and he was glad.

Closer and closer to his own face it drew, and he did not draw away.
Finally she touched his lips with hers, and a wonderful sweetness
pervaded his whole frame. He awoke.

For a moment he lay blinking, still wrapped in the dream. At any rate,
the storm was real. The bushes still thrashed, and the waves beat.
Before him stretched the same wide waste of grey water slashed with
white.

The sight of the water brought full recollection back. He had been
looking at it all day, and he hated it. It was the water that made his
prison. He sat up swearing at his dream. It was a fine thing a man
should have no better control over his emotions while he slept.

Beside him on the sand lay another tin plate, with bread and fish.
Fresh fish this time, half a pink salmon trout lately pulled from the
water. Touching the plate he found it warm. Was it possible----

Looking in the sand beside where he had lain he saw the rounded
depressions made by two knees, on the other side of him was a
hand-print. Sam scowled and violently scrubbed his lips with the back
of his hand. Even so, he would not admit to himself that the hateful
thing had happened.

Nevertheless he ate the fish.

"I've got to keep my strength up if I'm going to help myself," he
excused it.

The sun was hidden, but he knew by that instinct which serves us when
we give up mechanical contrivances, that it was no more than noon.
Half of this hideous day remained to be got over.

He sat dwelling on his grievances until the top of his head seemed
about to fly off. Then he set to work to search for and collect dry
logs and stow them under the willows, and in so