He had waited an eternity. At last, as he put his ear to her breast, a sound, ever so faint, but still a sound, told him that the heart was pulsing anew. He forced a generous draught of the rum through her lips and madly renewed his efforts to arouse the blood. Several moments more he struggled in pitiful suspense, and then a gentle color flowed under the marble skin, a touch of pink rose to the blue lips, the eyelids quivered a moment and then opened. He hauled the sail to shield her from the glare of the sun, and held a cup of fresh water to her lips. She looked at him, but no words came from her lips. Instead, she breathed a sigh and with a faint smile relinquished herself and fell back peacefully into his arms. Once or twice she opened her eyes in an effort to speak, but each time he soothed her and bade her rest. He was but a man, and it needed a gentler hand to cope with such an emergency; but now that the danger was past he felt instinctively that nature would seek in her own ways to restore, and he let her lie quiet, pillowed in the curve of his arm against his breast. And so, presently, her breathing was regular, and she slept.
He could not know how long it had been since they left the Sally, but by the sun he saw that there was yet an hour or two of the day. The ships were become mere dull blotches upon the sky, and from his position the lower tier of guns seemed just at the line of the sea. Time was precious, for the land lay a full day’s sail, even should the breeze continue to favor them, and he could not tell how long it would blow thus steadily. Fearful of awakening Barbara and yet anxious to take advantage of every favorable opportunity, he reached for the sheet and tiller and set the little vessel upon her course. She heeled gladly to the wind, and the coursing of the water beneath her long keel made a sound grateful to his ears. He had taken the Sally’s position upon the charts before leaving, and steered a course which should surely fetch a sight of the land upon the morrow. If the breeze held and the night were clear, he could steer by the stars. He blessed the habits of his training, in which he had studied the heavens in his night watches, wherever he might be. There was no sign of any disturbance of the elements. The heavy swell now and then shook the wind out of his tiny sail, but not a cloud flecked the sky above him, and the sea which glittered and sprang playfully at the sides of the pinnace seemed to beckon to him gladly in hopeful augury for the hours to come.
The apprehensions that he had felt were dissipated in the mellow glow of the southern sun. Had he been alone, this voyage in an open boat over an unknown sea would have filled him with delight. But the slender figure at his side, which lay pale and silent in the shadow of the gunwale, filled him with vague alarms.
On, on into the void, the tiny vessel crept. The sun sank low in the sky and dropped, a red ball, behind the disk of sea. The dusk swept up over the ocean like the shadow of a storm, and night drew a purplish curtain across the smiling heaven. The stars twinkled into sudden life, and night fell, clear, warm, spangled, while the soft, stealthy seas crept alongside and leaped and fawned at the shearing prow of the pinnace. An arching moon arose and sailed, a silver boat, high into the heavens. But Bras-de-Fer moved not and Barbara still slept. Continually his keen eyes swept the dark rim of the horizon for a blur of sail or the sign of any portentous movement of the elements. He knew the horrors of this southern ocean, and the catlike purring of the silken seas did not deceive him; for in the swaying deep he could feel the great rhythmical pulse of the heart of the sea, which spoke a continuous, sullen, ominous threat of resistless might, ready at the turn of a mood to rise, engulf, and devour.
By midnight the wind fell, and with the flapping of the idle sail Barbara awoke.
She lay for some moments, her eyes winking at the swinging stars, then pushed the cloak aside, lifted her head, and looked wide-eyed around and into the face of Bras-de-Fer.
“I have slept?” she asked, bewildered—“I have slept in this boat?” He bent forward over her eager delight.
“The clock around, Barbara, dear. You were so weary, so weary, I have let you rest.”
“Ah, yes, I remember. The Saucy Sally—”