This time it rang out more near and most unmistakable:
"Ahoy! The house, ahoy!"
With the frenzied leap of a madman, Whitaker gained the kitchen door, shook it, controlled himself long enough to draw the bolt, and flung out into the dim silvery witchery of the night. He stood staring, while the girl stole to his side and caught his arm. He passed it round her, lifted the other hand, dumbly pointed toward the northern beach. For the moment he could not trust himself to speak.
In the sweep of the anchorage a small white yacht hovered ghostlike, broadside to the island, her glowing ports and green starboard lamp painting the polished ebony of the still waters with the images of many burning candles.
On the beach itself a small boat was drawn up. A figure in white waited near it. Issuing from the deserted fishing settlement, rising over the brow of the uplands, moved two other figures in white and one in darker clothing, the latter leading the way at a rapid pace.
With one accord Whitaker and his wife moved down to meet them. As they drew together, the leader of the landing party checked his pace and called:
"Hello there! Who are you? What's the meaning of your fires—?"
Mechanically Whitaker's lips uttered the beginning of the response: "Shipwrecked—signalling for help—"
"Whitaker!" the voice of the other interrupted with a jubilant shout. "Thank God we've found you!"
It was Ember.