Another pause. Amidst the thrilling sensations of the moment Iris found herself idly speculating as to the meaning of bêche-de-mer, and why this common sailor pronounced French so well. Her thoughts reverted to the steamer.
"It surely cannot be possible that the Sirdar has gone to pieces—a magnificent vessel of her size and strength?"
He answered quietly—"It is too true, madam. I suppose you hardly knew she struck, it happened so suddenly. Afterwards, fortunately for you, you were unconscious."
"How do you know?" she inquired quickly. A flood of vivid recollection was pouring in upon her.
"I—er—well, I happened to be near you, madam, when the ship broke up, and we—er—drifted ashore together."
She rose and faced him. "I remember now," she cried hysterically. "You caught me as I was thrown into the corridor. We fell into the sea when the vessel turned over. You have saved my life. Were it not for you I could not possibly have escaped."
She gazed at him more earnestly, seeing that he blushed beneath the crust of salt and sand that covered his face. "Why," she went on with growing excitement, "you are the steward I noticed in the saloon yesterday. How is it that you are now dressed as a sailor?"
He answered readily enough. "There was an accident on board during the gale, madam. I am a fair sailor but a poor steward, so I applied for a transfer. As the crew were short-handed my offer was accepted."
Iris was now looking at him intently.
"You saved my life," she repeated slowly. It seemed that this obvious fact needed to be indelibly established in her mind. Indeed the girl was overwrought by all that she had gone through. Only by degrees were her thoughts marshaling themselves with lucid coherence. As yet, she recalled so many dramatic incidents that they failed to assume due proportion.