"Yes," said Cheveril. He spoke in a low voice, even with reverence, she thought. "We shall be out of this in an hour. It will light us home."
"How—wonderful!" she said, half involuntarily.
Cheveril said no more; but the silence that fell between them was the silence of that intimacy which only those who have stood together before the great threshold of death can know. Many minutes passed before Evelyn spoke again, and then her words came slowly, with hesitation.
"You knew?" she said. "You knew that we were safe?"
"Yes," he answered quietly; "I knew. God doesn't give with one hand and take away with the other. Have you never noticed that?"
"I don't know," she answered with a sharp sigh. "He has never given me anything very valuable."
"Quite sure?" said Cheveril, and she caught the old quizzical note in his voice.
She did not reply. She was trying to understand him in the darkness, and she found it a difficult matter.
There followed a long, long silence. The roar of the breaking seas had become remote and vague.
But the moonlight was growing brighter. The dark cave was no longer a place of horror.