here in the biting wind and watched it float by out to sea! But say,
has anything come ashore? She will be waking soon, and we have miles
to go.'

But Waring did not answer; he turned away. The old man caught at his
feet. 'You are not going,' he cried in a shrill voice, '--you are not
going? Leave me to die,--that is well; the sun will come and burn me,
thirst will come and madden me, these wounds will torture me, and all
is no more than I deserve. But Silver? If I die, she dies. If you
forsake me, you forsake her. Listen; do you believe in your Christ,
the dear Christ? Then, in his name I swear to you that you cannot
reach her alone, that only I can guide you to her. O save me, for her
sake! Must she suffer and linger and die? O God, have pity and soften
his heart!' The voice died away in sobs, the weak slow sobs of an old
man.

But Waring, stern in avenging justice, drew himself from the feeble
grasp, and walked down towards the boats. He did not intend fairly to
desert the miserable old creature. He hardly knew what he intended,
but his impulse was to put more space between them, between himself
and this wretch who gathered his evil living from dead men's bones. So
he stood gazing out to sea. A faint cry roused him, and, turning, he
saw that the old man had dragged himself half across the distance
between them, marking the way with his blood, for the bandages were
loosened by his movements. As Waring turned, he held up his hands,
cried aloud, and fell as if dead on the sands. 'I am a brute,' said
Waring. Then he went to work and brought back consciousness, rebound
the wounds, lifted the body in his strong arms and bore it down the
beach. A sail-boat lay in a cove, with a little skiff in tow. Waring
arranged a couch in the bottom, and placed the old man in an easy