The sound of the scrambling, struggling hoofs was lost in the strife of waters, the swaying figures disappeared in the gloom, and the man who was left behind turned grimly and went back into the empty hut.
The candle still cast a flickering light over table and bed. He stood with his back to the raging night and stared at the unsteady flame. It was screened from extinction in the draught by a standing photograph-frame. The picture this contained was turned away from him. After a moment it caught his attention. He moved round the table. Though Death were swooping towards him, swift and certain, on the wings of the rising current, he was drawn as a needle to the magnet. Like a dying man, he reached for the last draught that should slake his thirst and give him peace in dying.
He leaned upon the table, that creaked and shook beneath his weight. He stretched forth his arms on each side of the candle, and drew the portrait close to the flame. Sylvia's face laughed at him through the shifting, uncertain light. She was standing on a wind-blown open space. Her lips were parted. He thought he heard her voice, calling him. And the love in her eyes—the love that shone through the laughter! It held him like a spell—even though it was not for him.
He gazed earnestly upon this thing that had been another man's treasure long before he had even seen her, and as he gazed, he forgot all beside. By that supreme sacrifice of self, he had wiped out all but his exceeding love for her. The spirit had triumphed over the flesh. Love the Immortal to which Death is but a small thing had lifted him up above the world. . . .
What was it that suddenly pierced him as he leaned there? No sound above that mighty tumult could possibly have reached him. No movement beyond that single flickering flame could have caught his vision. No touch was laid upon him. Yet suddenly he jerked upright with every nerve a-quiver—and beheld her!
She stood in the doorway, gasping for breath, clinging to the woodwork for support, with Death behind her, but no fear of Death in her eyes. They held instead a glory which he had never seen before.
He stood and gazed upon her, unbelieving, afraid to move. His lips formed her name. And, as one who springs from tempest into safe shelter, Sylvia sprang to him. Her arms were all about him before he knew that she was not a dream.
He clasped her then with such a rush of wonder and joy as nearly deprived him of the power to think. And in that moment their lips met in a kiss that was close and sacred, uniting each to each beyond all severance—a soul communion.
Burke was trembling as she had never known him tremble before.
"Why—have you come back?" he said, as speech returned.
She answered him swiftly and passionately, clinging faster with the words: "Because—God knows—I would rather die with you—than—than live without you! I love you so! Oh, don't you understand?"