the foremast soon after the ship had struck the rocks, and fully eight
hours before Black Dennis Nolan had released her. The second mate, who
had carried her up and lashed her there, had been flung to his death by
the whipping of the mast a moment after he had made the last loop fast
about her blanketed form. She had been drenched and chilled by the
flying spume and the spray that burst upward and outward from the foot
of the cliff. The wind had snatched the breath from her lips, deafened
her, blinded her, and driven the cold to her very bones. The swaying and
leaping of the spar had at last jarred and wrenched her to a state of
insensibility.

She spoke only three times during the journey.

"I would have died if I had been left there a little longer. You were
brave to save me as you did. What is your name?"

"Aye, 'twas a terrible place for ye," replied the skipper. "I bes Dennis
Nolan, skipper o' Chance Along; an' now I bes takin' ye to my granny,
Mother Nolan, an' a grand, warm house. Ye'll have Father McQueen's own
bed, for he bes away till June, an' a fire in the chimley all day."

Her only answer was to gaze at him with a look of calm, faint interest
for a moment and then close her eyes. Ten minutes later she spoke again.

"The _Royal William_ was bound for New York," she said. "There were ten
passengers aboard her. My maid was with me--a Frenchwoman."

This was Greek to the skipper, and he mumbled an unintelligible answer.
What could she mean by her maid? Her daughter? No, for she was scarcely
more than a girl herself--and in any case, her daughter would not be a