"Are you better?" said a voice.
She stared. On the bold, swarthy features of a young man now standing and looking down at her, the light flared and gleamed; the open shirt revealed a muscular throat; the down-turned black eyes were steady, solicitous. His appearance was unexpected, yet not quite strange; she had seen him before, but, in the general surprise and perplexity of the moment, did not ask herself where. The interval between what she last remembered on the beach—the rush and swirl of water—and what she woke to, absorbed the hazy workings of her mind.
The young man stopped; stirred the fire, and after a pause, apparently to give her time to collect her thoughts, repeated his question: "Are you better, now?"
"Oh, yes," she said, with an effort, half sitting up. And then irrelevantly, with rather a wild glance about her: "Isn't—isn't it storming outside?"
"A little—not much—" A smile crossed the dark features.
"I remember," she added, as if forcing herself to speak, "it had just begun to, on the beach, when it—the 'grand' tide—" The words died away; mechanically she lifted her hand, brushed back the shining waves of hair.
"Why think of it now?" he interposed gently.
"But," uncertainly she smoothed her skirt; it was damp and warm; "I suppose this is the island of Casque?"
"Yes."
"And this place?"