ocean where no ships ever sailed, a trackless waste that stretched away to
the infinite blue.

Crouched upon my bed I fell vaguely a-wondering what should have roused me,
hearkening to the distant roar of the surf that seemed to me now plaintive
and despairing, now full of an ominous menace that banished gentle sleep.

Thereupon I must needs bethink me how often I had waked thus during my long
and weary sojourn on this lonely island; how many times I had leapt from
slumber, fancying I heard a sound of oars or voices hailing cheerily beyond
the reef, or again (and this most often and bitterest phantasy of all) a
voice, soft and low yet with a wondrous sweet and vital ring, the which as
I knew must needs sound within my dreams henceforth,--a voice out of the
past that called upon my name:

"Martin--Oh, Martin!"

And this a voice that came to me in the blazing heat of tropic day, in
the cool of eve, in the calm serenity of night, a voice calling, calling
infinite pitiful and sweet, yet mocking me with my loneliness.

"Martin, dear love! Oh, Martin!"

"Joan!" I whispered and reached out yearning arms to the empty air.
"Damaris--beloved!"

Beyond the open door I heard the sighing of the wind and the roar of the
surf, soft with distance, infinite plaintive and despairing. Then, because
sleep was not for me, I arose and came groping within my inner cave where
stood a coffer and, lifting the lid, drew forth that I sought and went and