At the summit the two turned their faces back toward the sea. Beyond the gently waving forest trees stretched the broad expanse of shimmering ocean. In the foreground, upon the bosom of a tiny harbor, lay a graceful yacht—a beautiful toy it looked from the distance of the cliff top.
For the first time the man obtained an unobstructed view of the craft. Before, when they first had discovered it, the boles of the forest trees had revealed it but in part.
Now he saw it fully from stem to stern with all its well-known, graceful lines standing out distinctly against the deep blue of the water.
The shock of recognition brought an involuntary exclamation from his lips. The girl looked quickly up into his face.
"What is it, Thandar?" she asked. "What do you see?"
"The yacht!" he whispered. "It is the Priscilla—my father's. He is searching for me."
"And you wish to go?"
For some time he did not speak—only stood there gazing at the distant yacht. And the young girl at his side remained quite motionless and silent, too, looking up at the man's profile, watching the expression upon his face with a look of dumb misery upon her own.
Quickly through the man's mind was running the gamut of his past. He recalled his careful and tender upbringing—the time, the money, the fond pride that had been expended upon his education. He thought of the result—the narrow-minded, weakling egoist; the pusillanimous coward that had been washed from the deck of a passing steamer upon the sandy beach of this savage, forgotten shore.