“Is that the rock? it glows, it flashes back the light. There is a pale radiance that quivers above and around, and a wide belt of purple about its base—a belt of colour that widens, contracts, and coils upon itself. Purple—no, it is not purple; it is like a band of opal; now ’tis red, blood-red,” and her voice sank to an awed whisper, “and the yellow flame above shines wonderfully.”
“Mawoh,” muttered Klaas.
“Well, what now?”
“It is gone—faded!” And she stood looking below her with wide-opened eyes and parted lips, and a glow of colour in her cheeks. “Frank, it was such a sight I saw when we were on the mid-Atlantic.”
“And has it repaid you for all you have suffered?” he asked.
“Repaid me; it was beautiful! But it has not repaid me, and will not till I stand beside the rock itself.”
“That cannot be,” he said in low tones.
“And why?” she asked, still looking away.
“Webster is ill.”
“He is rapidly recovering, I am sure; and the news that we have seen the Golden Rock will restore him.”