We were now far out on the heaving bosom of the Caribbean Sea.
Not a light could be seen in the quarter where, as I knew, Bolivar lay, for many miles stretched between us and that treacherous shore.
Surely I had endured enough to fatigue my body and induce sleep; that was just the trouble, for while my frame was sore and weary my mind was as keen set and full of vigor as that of a lawyer ready to begin his plea to judge and jury.
No use then for me to lie down in my little den and try to conjure sleep—with Hildegarde so near, and my heart in my throat, as it were.
Another cigar in that comfortable chair; if slumber overtook me under the awning, what odds? I had passed more than one hot night in the region of the Malacca Straits and Singapore, sleeping on deck.
Besides, I wanted to think.
Several hours passed, and there I still lounged, puffing drowsily at my fourth cigar, while the prominent events of the past two years were hurriedly recalled.
Thus I was sitting when two bells struck; my cigar had gone out and fallen to the deck, and I had about reached the point where the mind begins to yield the battle with the sleep god, when something like a sigh caught my ear—a sigh accompanied by a rustle of garments; and as I detected the presence of a delicate perfume I knew only too well (her favorite), I raised my head and discovered a figure leaning over the rail of the yacht close by.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MOCKERY OF FATE.