She changed places with him, facing forward, and said wearily, as he shipped the oars: "So you want to get back?"
"Why, yes; don't you? We are adrift in an open boat."
"The wind is going down, and the seas do not break," she answered, in the same weary voice. "It does not rain any more, and we will have the moon."
A glance around told him that she spoke truly. There was less pressure to the wind, and the seas rose and fell, sweeping past them like moving hills of oil. Moonlight shining through thinning clouds faintly illumined her face, and he saw the expressionless weariness of her voice, and a sad, dreamy look in her gray eyes.
"How did you get the dinghy down, Freda?" he asked. "And why did no one come with you?"
"Father was asleep, and the mate was incompetent. I had my revolver, and they backed the yards for me and threw the dinghy over. I had loosened the gripes as you went aloft. I thought you would fall. Still—no one would come."
"And you came alone," he said in a broken voice, "and pulled this boat to windward in this sea. You are a wonder."
"I saw you catch the life-buoy. Why did you fall? You were cautioned."
"I forgot the foot-rope. I was thinking of you."
"You are like the mate. He forgot the foot-rope all day because he was thinking of me. I should have gone aloft and seized it myself."