the wave, as one may sometimes see a bit of light reed or pith flung up
some distance ahead by an advancing tide on the beach in England. In an
instant he steadied himself and staggered to his feet. Torn and bruised
as he was by the pummelling of the billows, he looked eagerly into the
water in search of his companion. The next wave flung up Muriel, as the
last had flung himself. He bent over her with a panting heart as she lay
there, insensible, on the long white shore. Alive or dead? that was now
the question.

Raising her hastily in his arms, with her clothes all clinging wet and
close about her, Felix carried her over the narrow strip of tidal beach,
above high-water level, and laid her gently down on a soft green bank of
short tropical herbage, close to the edge of the coral. Then he bent over
her once more, and listened eagerly at her heart. It still beat with
faint pulses--beat--beat--beat. Felix throbbed with joy. She was alive!
alive! He was not quite alone, then, on that unknown island!

And strange as it seemed, it was only a little more than two short hours
since they had stood and looked out across the open sea over the bulwarks
of the Australasian together!

But Felix had no time to moralize just then. The moment was clearly
one for action. Fortunately, he happened to carry three useful things
in his pocket when he jumped overboard after Muriel. The first was a
pocket-knife; the second was a flask with a little whiskey in it; and the
third, perhaps the most important of all, a small metal box of wax vesta
matches. Pouring a little whiskey into the cup of the flask, he held it
eagerly to Muriel's lips. The fainting girl swallowed it automatically.
Then Felix, stooping down, tried the matches against the box. They were
unfortunately wet, but half an hour's exposure, he knew, on sun-warmed