battling with itself on the little lonely isle. She could see the hot,
angry sun, feel its scorching rays, hear the hissing of the waves. All
the man's strength for good, for ill, went into the story; the isle
became as the pit of Acheron; at first there were no stars overhead. The
girl was very pale; she could not have left now; she had never imagined
anything like this. She had looked into Greek books, seen pictures of
men chained to rocks and struggling against the anger of the gods--but
they had appeared the mere fantasies of mythology. The drama of the
little coral isle seemed to unfold a new and real vista of life into
which she had unconsciously strayed. She hardly breathed; her hand had
leaped to her breast; she felt alternately oppressed, thrilled. Her eyes
were star-like; but like stars behind mist. Strange! strange!

"When the man woke," he had said, "he cursed the sea for bringing him as
he thought nothing. One desire tormented him. It became intolerable. Day
after day he went down to the ocean, but the surf only leaped in
derision. For the thousandth time he cursed it, the isle to which he was
bound. Weeks passed, until, almost mad through the monotony of the long
hours, one day he inadvertently picked up a book. The brute convict
could just read. Where, how he ever learned, I forget. He began to pick
out the words. After that--"

"After that?" The girl had drawn closer; his language was plain,
matter-of-fact. The picture that he drew was without color; she,
however, saw through a medium of her own. The very landscape changed
now, remained no longer the terrible, barren environment. She seemed to
hear the singing of the birds, the softer murmur of the waves, the
purring of the stream. It was like a mask, one of those poetic
interpolations that the olden poets sometimes introduced in their
tragedies. John Steele paused. Was it over?--Almost; the coral isle