She did so. He pulled himself to the stern, slipped the life-buoy over his head and into the boat, then, by a mighty exercise of all his strength, vaulted aboard with seeming ease and sat down on a thwart. He felt a strong inclination to laughter and tears, but repressed himself; for masculine hysterics would not do before this young woman. She came aft to the next thwart, and when he felt steadier he said:

"You have saved my life, Freda; but thanks are idle now, for your own is in danger. Give me the oars. We must get back to the ship."

She changed places with him, facing forward, and said wearily, as he shipped the oars: "So you want to get back?"

"Why, yes; don't you? We are adrift in an open boat."

"The wind is going down, and the seas do not break," she answered, in the same weary voice. "It does not rain any more, and we will have the moon."

A glance around told him that she spoke truly. There was less pressure to the wind, and the seas rose and fell, sweeping past them like moving hills of oil. Moonlight shining through thinning clouds faintly illumined her face, and he saw the expressionless weariness of her voice, and a sad, dreamy look in her gray eyes.

"How did you get the dinghy down, Freda?" he asked. "And why did no one come with you?"

"Father was asleep, and the mate was incompetent. I had my revolver, and they backed the yards for me and threw the dinghy over. I had loosened the gripes as you went aloft. I thought you would fall.

Still--no one would come."

"And you came alone," he said in a broken voice, "and pulled this boat to windward in this sea. You are a wonder."

"I saw you catch the life-buoy. Why did you fall? You were cautioned."

"I forgot the foot-rope. I was thinking of you."

"You are like the mate. He forgot the foot-rope all day because he was thinking of me. I should have gone aloft and seized it myself."

There was no reproof or sarcasm in the tired voice. She had simply made an a.s.sertion.

"Why are you at sea, before the mast--a man of your talents?"

It was foolish, he knew; but the word "man" sent a thrill through him.

"To please you if I may; to cultivate what you did not find in me."

"Yes, I knew; when you came on board I knew it. But you might have spoken to me."

There was petulance in the tone now, and the soul of the man rejoiced.

The woman in her was a.s.serting itself.

"Miss Folsom," he answered warmly, "I could not. You had made it impossible. It was your right, your duty, if you wished it. But you ignored my existence."

"I was testing you. I am glad now, Mr. Owen."

The petulance was gone, but there was something chilling in this answer.

"Can you see the ship?" he asked after a moment's silence. "The moonlight is stronger."

"We will not reach her. They have squared away. The mate had the deck, and father is asleep."

"And left you in an open boat," he answered angrily.

"He knew I was with you."

What was irrelevant in this explanation of the mate's conduct escaped him at the time. The full moon had emerged from behind the racing clouds, and it brightened her face, fringed by the tangled hair and yellow sou'wester, to an unearthly beauty that he had never seen before. He wondered at it, and for a moment a grisly thought crossed his mind that this was not life, but death; that he had died in the fall, and in some manner the girl had followed.

She was standing erect, her lithe figure swaying to the boat's motion, and pointing to leeward, while the moonlit face was now sweetened by the smile of a happy child. He stood up, and looked where she pointed, but saw nothing, and seated himself to look at her.

"See!" she exclaimed gleefully. "They have hauled out the spanker and are sheeting home the royal. I will never be married! I will never be married! He knew I was with you."

Again he stood up and searched the sea to leeward. There was nothing in sight.

"Unhinged," he thought, "by this night's trouble. Freda," he said gently, "please sit down. You may fall overboard."

"I am not insane," she said, as though reading his thought; and, smiling radiantly in his face, she obeyed him.

"Do you know where we are?" he asked tentatively. "Are we in the track of ships?"

"No," she answered, while her face took on the dreamy look again. "We are out of all the tracks. We will not be picked up. We are due west from Ilio Island. I saw it at sundown broad on the starboard bow. The wind is due south. If you will pull in the trough of the sea we can reach it before daylight. I am tired--so tired--and sleepy. Will you watch out?"

"Why, certainly. Lie down in the stern-sheets and sleep if you can."

She curled up in her yellow oil-coat and slumbered through the night, while he pulled easily on the oars--not that he had full faith in her navigation, but to keep himself warm. The sea became smoother, and as the moon rose higher, it attained a brightness almost equal to that of the sun, casting over the clear sky a deep-blue tint that shaded indefinitely into the darkness extending from itself to the horizon.

Late in the night he remembered the danger of sleeping in strong moonlight, and arising softly to cover her face with his damp handkerchief, he found her looking at him.

"We are almost there, John. Wake me when we arrive," she said, and closed her eyes.

He covered her face, and, marveling at her words, looked ahead. He was within a half-mile of a sandy beach which bordered a wooded island. The sea was now like gla.s.s in its level smoothness, and the air was warm and fragrant with the smell of flowers and foliage. He shipped the oars, and pulled to the beach. As the boat grounded she arose, and he helped her ash.o.r.e.

The beach shone white under the moonlight, and dotting it were large sh.e.l.lfish and moving crabs that scuttled away from them. Bordering the beach were forest and undergrowth with interlacery of flowering vines.

A ridge of rocks near by disclosed caves and hollows, some filled by the water of tinkling cascades. Oranges snowed in the branches of trees, and cocoa-palms lifted their heads high in the distance. A small deer arose, looked at them, and lay down, while a rabbit inspected them from another direction and began nibbling.

"An earthly paradise, I should say," he observed, as he hauled the boat up the beach. "Plenty of food and water, at any rate."

"It is Ilio Island," she answered, with that same dreamy voice. "It is uninhabited and never visited."

"But surely, Freda, something will come along and take us off."

"No; if I am taken off I must be married, of course; and I will never be married."

"Who to, Freda? Whom must you marry if we are rescued?"

"The mate--Mr. Adams. Not you, John Owen--not you. I do not like you."

She was unbalanced, of course; but the speech pained him immeasurably, and he made no answer. He searched the clean-cut horizon for a moment, and when he looked back she was close to him, with the infantile smile on her face, candor and sanity in her gray eyes. Involuntarily he extended his arms, and she nestled within them.

"You _will_ be married, Freda," he said; "you _will_ be married, and to me."

He held her tightly and kissed her lips; but the kiss ended in a crashing sound, and a shock of pain in his whole body which expelled the breath from his lungs. The moonlit island, sandy beach, blue sea and sky were swallowed in a blaze of light, which gave way to pitchy darkness, with rain on his face and whistling wind in his ears, while he clung with both arms, not to a girl, but to a hard, wet, and cold mizzentopgallant-yard whose iron jack-stay had b.u.mped him severely between the eyes. Below him in the darkness a scream rang out, followed by the roar of the mate: "Are you all right up there? Want any help?"

He had fallen four feet.