that he had let his old comrade slip back into the sea, and at the very
place and under the very circumstances in which that comrade had saved
his own life. He hoped by one bold lie to set the matter at rest for
ever. There was no one to bear witness--and if he should have to carry
that still white face in his eyes and that despairing cry in his ears
for evermore--at least none should know of it. 'No one,' he cried, more
loudly still. 'I slipped on the rock, and the rope fell into the sea!'
So saying he left them, and, rushing down the steep path, gained his own
cottage and locked himself within.

The remainder of that night he passed lying on his bed--dressed and
motionless--staring upwards, and seeming to see through the darkness a
pale face gleaming wet in the lightning, with its glad recognition
turning to ghastly despair, and to hear a cry which never ceased to echo
in his soul.

In the morning the storm was over and all was smiling again, except that
the sea was still boisterous with its unspent fury. Great pieces of
wreck drifted into the port, and the sea around the island rock was
strewn with others. Two bodies also drifted into the harbour--one the
master of the wrecked ketch, the other a strange seaman whom no one
knew.

Sarah saw nothing of Eric till the evening, and then he only looked in
for a minute. He did not come into the house, but simply put his head in
through the open window.

'Well, Sarah,' he called out in a loud voice, though to her it did not
ring truly, 'is the wedding dress done? Sunday week, mind! Sunday week!'