“Ah! But this is beautiful!” she breathed a moment later. “And I shall see it all—all this marvelous island!”
The scene before her was like some picture taken from a fairy book. A dark circle of forest with only a pale light gleaming here and there like a star, and at the center of all this the lights of a long, low room casting mellow reflections upon the water.
Figures moved about like gay phantoms in this light. To her ears came the low melody of guitar and violin.
“It is so beautiful!” She felt her throat tighten with the joy of it all. “And yet—”
She was thinking of the black schooner that had slipped away into the great unknown lying away beyond the shrouds of night.
“The diver was on that schooner,” she assured herself. “What if they return to our home, our poor wrecked ship! They may set fire to it! They may blow it up with dynamite!” She shuddered. “They came there to look for something. I wonder what it could be? Florence is a famous diver. When we are back at the wreck—if we ever are,” she murmured dreamily, “she shall dive into that place and see. She—”
But someone was calling her name. She must return to the shore. Her brief hour of revery was at an end.
* * * * * * * *
On the camping grounds at Duncan’s Bay for two hours Florence slept. When she woke the moon was out. The wind too had risen.
“Waves will be too high,” was her instant decision. “We must stay here for the night.”