with the russian's wild death cry still echoing in her senses emily awoke a half-hour later to a vivid consciousness. she found herself lying in the protecting shade of the boat sail tent which lavelle had erected for her habitation near the eastern side of the hill on the day after the landing. the scene upon which her eyes had closed flashed again across her vision and she sat up with a shudder.
the movement brought to her senses for the first time a realization of physical pain. remembering the strength of spirit which had been given to her to stand upon fire she throttled the cry which sprang to her lips. her suffering became precious to her even as the agony of travail is dear to a woman. her eyes welled with hot tears.
putting out a hand blindly she found the little canvas sandals. she picked them up and pressed them to her bosom. the charred heels and soles crumbled away at her touch. she kissed them with the impulse which would carry a warrior's lips to his colors. to her these pieces of canvas were the symbols of a faith which had sustained her in a trial which passed her understanding.
looking downward at her feet, she found both of them bandaged. she had been dimly conscious of lavelle doing this service for her. she recognized the bindings as pieces of the hem of her night robe with which she had bound his brow in the boat. a mysterious thrill went through her; her eyes overflowed.
the breeze lifted the edge of the tent and disclosed lavelle to her view. she caught the canvas and held it back. he was just finishing the restepping of the signal mast. his back was toward her.
straightening from his task to his full height and with one of his strong bare arms extended to the mast and the other hanging loosely at his side, he looked out over the sea to the southward. his tattered shirt and trousers still wet with sea water clung tightly to his lithe, powerful form. there was a challenge in the set of his head and in the grim line of his jaw. his attitude breathed of a man indomitable—one who, indeed, was master of his fate; the intrepid captain of his soul. his destiny would find him thus.
the woman in the tent watched this man in wondrous awe, nor could she know that his thoughts were alone of her at that moment—of a woman sanctified in his sight not alone by living fire, but also by the passion of a love unutterable. she saw the breeze toss the forelock of his dark brown hair. he started. she dropped the edge of the tent, realizing, without any amazement, that they two were alone in an empty, far-flung waste of the world. she laid her head down on her long coat which he had rolled into a pillow. she dared not speak.
during what seemed an interminable time, the woman in the tent heard lavelle moving about outside, and, of a sudden, the singleness of his footfall brought chang surging into her thoughts. a moment later lavelle stood in the tent entrance, carrying food and drink. she sat up to behold in his face an expression which stabbed her with its pain.
"you are suffering, little woman," he said tenderly.
all she could do was shake her head that she was not. discovering what it was she was holding tightly to her bosom he turned away. he understood.
presently he pressed her to eat the meal he had prepared. although it nearly choked her to swallow she ate and drank because he wished her to do so.
"what of chang? has he gone—gone away?" she dared to ask finally.
the man sitting in the tent entrance had his gaze fixed far away upon the relentless ocean's breast. he nodded his head sadly.
"god's benison be with him—the truest, the best friend it has ever been given to any man to know," lavelle said, facing emily. after a second's pause he went on in a tense voice:
"this treacherous earth—treacherous with the sea's treachery—opened at our feet down there like the snapping jaws of a monster. chang went first. i put out a hand to save him. the jaws got me.
"it seemed very hard that the end should come like that—without even a moment to say good-by." lavelle paused again. "you can have no idea," he resumed, "what a torment of waters is down there—waters filled with reeds and roots which catch at one's limbs and cling to them—like serpents.
"as we came up to—to snatch at the crust of shore—it crumbled at our touch. i could see the hill. you—you had just turned away. as i looked your head passed out of my sight. then, we saw that—that fiend climb up here. we saw him stop and—and look back. i shouted—that is, i tried to shout, but i had no breath. i never was so weak in all—all my days. but whether he heard me or didn't he must have seen what had happened to us. he would never have dared come near you—if he hadn't.
"the earth broke under our hands again and again. the sea tore at us. there is a tremendous current under this island. i heard you cry for—for us to come to you. chang heard you. but we were caught—struggling like two foolish animals in a trap. when the signal staff went down——why, i think—i could not think. we saw you come to the edge of the hill there—heard you cry again, but the sea——"
lavelle became silent. his eyes sought the great blue deeps below. emily could not speak. her soul was crying to comfort this man. the yearning of an unknown motherhood was in her heart.
"like most sailor men—deep-water men——" he went on, "chang could not swim. i imagine he must have found a foothold in one of the roots in the water. he caught me—suddenly—lifted me bodily, it seemed, up out of the sea—on to the shore. he was very powerful. i turned to help him. all was quiet up here. he shook his head and—and let go.
"'go, master. quick—go! good-by, flen'. good-by flor you!'
"a second only he floated. then the sea sucked him—down. he went with a smile—unafraid. and i came to—to you—on the hill. you don't——"
his voice broke. he leaped to his feet and walked away. it is not a good thing that a man's tears shall be seen by a strange woman.
