The young man raised himself upon his elbow, feeling bewildered, and half inclined to believe that he was dreaming. But the rough voice of Tom Lark, and a far gentler voice uttered at nearly one and the same moment, soon dissipated the mist from his brain, and enabled him to comprehend the truth.
“Round with the yards, men. Lively! lively!”
“Dear Harry, speak to me—are you much hurt?”
Then the vision of the ship fading away in the mist, as she boomed upon her new course, was partially hidden from the eyes of the harpooner by the fair young face of Alice Howard that was bent full of sympathy toward his own, while she proceeded to cut, with his sheath-knife, the cords about his ankles and wrists.
“My own Alice, here on the ice! Heaven help her!” cried Marline, as he threw his arm impulsively around the waist of the sweet girl. “Without shelter—without—”
“Answer me, Harry, are you much hurt?”
“If we could erect some kind of a canopy to cover you—ay, if we could only do that,” continued the harpooner, still, in his anxiety for the comfort of Alice, forgetting to answer her question, “then there would be some consolation in the matter.”
“You are hurt—badly injured!” murmured the girl, with tears in her eyes, “and that is the reason why you will not reply to me.”
“Hurt? No, indeed—I was only stunned!” And the young man sprung lightly to his feet.
Alice also arose, and placed her hand upon the shoulder of her lover, looking into his face with a bright smile.