Three weeks!—she shuts her eyes ever so tightly, but the traitor tears creep through beneath the black fringe of her lashes.
Three weeks since she parted from Vane amid the horrors of that awful night. Three weeks he has believed her dead. Has he mourned her much? she wonders. Perhaps time has already dulled the sharp edge of grief.
Then graver thoughts chase these self-regrets from her mind.
A terrible doubt chills the life-blood around her heart.
After all, was Vane really saved?
She remembers that crowded little life-boat, already so full that it seemed rash and perilous to take in even one more passenger.
Has the little bark survived the dangers of the sea, or gone down with its precious freight of souls to swell the treasures of the "vasty deep?"
Truly has the poet written that: "Love is sorrow with half-grown wings."
Reine lies silent, with quivering lips and closed eyelids, thinking with grief unutterable of the beloved one's unknown fate. From first to last this passionate love of hers has brought her nothing but bitter pain and sharp humiliation.