crossed the moonlit deck to Done's side, the sailors drifted away out of
earshot, and inquisitive eyes could not turn in Jim's direction without
provoking a profane reproof.

Done's heart beat heavily as the slim, dark figure faced him, extending a
trembling hand.

'I am Lucy Woodrow,' she said in a voice little above a whisper.

'Yes,' he answered simply.

Her hand closed upon his fingers, and she was silent for a moment,
evidently deeply agitated. Her head was bent, hiding her face from his
eyes; and he noticed curiously the moonlight glimmering like tiny sparks
in her red-brown hair.

'You saved my life,' she continued; 'you risked your own. I thank you
with all my heart.'

There was something in her voice that made the simple, formal words quite
eloquent, but Jim scarcely heeded them; he was terrified lest she should
kiss his hand, and withdrew it abruptly.

'I can only say thank you--thank you! And one says that in gratitude for
a mere politeness. But you understand, don't you? My heart is full.'

'Yes, I understand,' he said. 'Now, please, try to say no more about it.
I'm glad to have helped you; but the risk I took was very small after
all. I've almost lived in the sea.'