"He looks a little better, don't you think?" she asked wistfully before she tiptoed out of the room. And Carthew, after a prolonged glance at his patient, nodded approval and hope.
That night and the next day and the next again passed without any change of conditions on board. Captain Dove was still confined to his room, and would not even see Slyne, who had, therefore, to live alone, bored to the last limit, not so much afraid of the fever as shirking any needless risk of infection, his intercourse with Sallie confined to an occasional shouted caution or inquiry.
Da Costa took the bridge by night and she by day. And every night she relieved Carthew for a few hours from his unremitting attendance on the sick man. She was with Reuben Yoxall when he died.
What passed between the two of them during that last vigil is not to be told. But the dead man's face was very calm and content when Sallie at length roused Carthew from his scanty rest to tell him that the appointed end had come.
"But you promised to call me up," he said, most unhappy for her.
"If there was any need," she corrected him gently. "But there was none. He knew—before I came in."
Her downcast eyes were dry, but grief almost beyond bearing showed in them as she looked up at him on her way to the door.
"You must get away to your own room now," he urged, "and have a long, quiet rest. Don't forget that you've done all you could—and far more than most folk would ever have dreamed of doing."
Her lips trembled a little. She held out a hand to him gratefully. She could not trust herself to speak. And, by and by, in her own quarters, she slowly cried herself to sleep.
Captain Dove was on the bridge next morning when she appeared, pale and worn. And he flew into a passion at sight of her, rating her very bitterly for her foolhardy behaviour.