Herman had moved from her side; he was on the opposite side of the raft, talking with the sailors in low tones. And the sailors looked over their shoulders, with their fiery eyes, as they conversed with Herman.
Again she fell into a doze,—she was with her father this time, and Eugene, her first love, by her side. Happy days!—innocent girlhood!
She awoke with a start,—Herman was still with the sailors, conversing in low tones.
And thus the short night at the tropics wore on. It was near sunrise, and yet very dark, when Godiva was dreaming—dreaming of the night when, yet a pure girl, she was joined in marriage to the brutal sensualist. There was the familiar parlor,—the white-haired father,—the clergyman,—her profligate husband. And the husband bore her again over the threshold, she struggling in his loathed embrace. In the struggle she awoke,—sunrise was warm and bright upon the waters,—and a fresh breeze fanned her burning cheek. Over her stood Herman, his right hand upraised,—the knife which it grasped glittering in the sun.
"The lot has fallen on me!" he cried.
"Herman!" she shrieked—and spread forth her hands. Too late! The knife was buried in her bosom.
"Woman you must die to save our lives!"
Godiva never saw anything in this world, after that blow, which was followed by a stream of blood.
"Come! Let us drink!" shouted Herman to the sailors, his eyes rolling all wild and mad.
Only one of the sailors came and joined him, in that loathsome draught. In the sunken features of the poor wretch, you but faintly recognize—Arthur Conroy.