There was the least little quiver in her voice as it died into silence. Randolph bent over her and kissed her on the lips.
“Thank you,” he said. “It is a haunting little song in its sad sweetness. Somehow, it seems like you, Monica.”
But she made no answer, for at that moment a sound reached their ears that made them both start, listening intently. Monica’s face grew white to the lips.
The sound was repeated with greater distinctness.
“A gun!” said Randolph.
“A ship in distress!” whispered Monica.
A ship in distress upon that cruel, iron-bound coast—a pitch-dark night and a rising gale!
Randolph looked grave and resolute.
“We must see what can be done,” he said.
Monica’s face was very pale, but as resolute as her husband’s.