CHAPTER IX.
Dawn broke, gray and wet. Although the storm had spent its fury and the wind had quieted down to a gentle breeze, the sea still ran mountains high and a fine rain was falling. But there was promise of clearing weather. Low on the eastern horizon a fringe of fiery red broke through the leaden clouds, putting in relief the water-line and heralding the near approach of sunrise. Away out yonder, far beyond the towering, white-capped breakers, protruded the jagged points of the treacherous sunken reef on which the ill-fated Atlanta had crashed to her doom.
Armitage strained his eyes in every direction until they ached. With the coming of daylight he had expected to get a glimpse of the wreck; possibly he would see people still on board, signaling for help. But as the darkness paled and he was able to distinguish water and sky through the receding gloom, he saw, to his amazement, that the steamer had completely disappeared. He perceived pieces of wreckage, and, near the reef, he thought he spied an upturned boat, but of the big steamer and the other life-boats which got away before the boilers exploded, there was not a sign. Nothing but a desolate waste of tossing gray water met his eyes everywhere.
As far as he could make out they were on an island. He had no idea how large it was, or if it was deserted or inhabited. He had heard his shipmates talk of islands in the Indian Ocean that were a peril to navigation, and he supposed this was one of them. When it got lighter he would be better able to take his bearings.
He was exhausted and weak after his long struggle with the waves, and his brine-soaked clothes hung heavily on him. Yet he no longer looked the same man he had been on the ship. The transformation in his appearance was startling; the long swim had effected a wonderful change. All trace of coal-dust had disappeared from his face and neck; once more he was a white man. His hands were cut and bleeding from the sharp rocks, and his body was bruised from head to foot, but nothing could conceal the fact that his bearing had distinction, that his head was well shaped, his features clean cut, that he had a strong mouth and a clear eye.
But he was supremely unconscious of how he looked. He was desperately hungry. His throat was dry and parched. His brine-soaked clothes hung heavily on him. His senses and consciousness seemed numbed. In truth, he marveled to find himself alive. Why had he exhausted and bruised himself struggling with the waves, fighting death, when he had no desire to live? Yes, he remembered now. It was the girl's fault. She had cried out to him, and somehow, in spite of himself, he had clutched at her and saved her from drowning.
He clenched his fists and muttered an oath as he turned to look at her. She was still lying, apparently unconscious, in the spot where he had carried her after they both staggered out of the jaws of death, and fell, exhausted, on the wild, storm-swept beach. His first instinct on gaining a foothold safe from the deadly suck of the thundering breakers had been to find for his helpless companion some kind of shelter from the wind and rain, and as he was assisting her over the slippery stones, green with slimy sea grass, they accidentally stumbled across a wide opening in the face of the precipitous cliff. Nearer inspection showed it to be a deep crevice, hollowed out of the solid rock in past ages by the action of the water. The sea had since receded, leaving a kind of cave, of no great height or depth, yet large enough to accommodate half a dozen persons. The interior was dry, while the thick growth of velvety moss underfoot provided a comfortable couch.
"A shipwrecked young woman couldn't wish for more luxurious quarters," muttered Armitage grimly to himself, and after he had taken mental note of the natural advantages of the place, he turned to look at the prostrate girl.
As yet Grace had given no sign of life. Her eyes were closed and her face livid. But for the nervous twitching of her mouth, and a low moan which from time to time escaped her lips, one might think she was dead. Her head was thrown back against the cold, damp wall, her beautiful, long hair, matted by sea water, was all disheveled. Water ran off every part of her and formed a little puddle by her side. Her dainty ball-dress, the envy of every woman on board only a few hours before, was in shreds. What remained of it, soaked and discolored, clung closely to her figure, revealing to Armitage's gaze outlines which caused the blood to rush tumultuously to his head. Her low-necked gown, torn during the panicky rush for the life-boats, had collapsed entirely at one side, exposing part of the delicately rounded, blue-veined bosom, and shoulders and arms as white and academically beautiful as if cut in marble by the sculptor's chisel.