CHAPTER XXVII.
STRANDED.
It was a dreadful moment when this paralyzing fear beset me—when it seemed as though the sun were hidden once more behind the black tempest clouds, and the atmosphere possessed a coldness that penetrated to my very marrow.
Dead!—my Hildegarde, and just when I had found her—when our hearts had been brought together after this weary separation—dead, and I held only the beautiful clay in my arms, the spirit having taken its upward flight.
Bitter indeed were my feelings while I crouched there, pressing her close to me.
Had I not declared she would be saved or else I must meet death with her? Then how dared I live when she was no more?
There was the sea, hungry for more victims.
A wild yearning to rush back into its embrace, with Hildegarde in my arms, took possession of me—for the moment I could not be accounted responsible for my actions.
Already I held her, and as if to take my farewell of this one so well beloved I bent down and kissed her again.
That was the saving stroke—I felt, or fancied I did, an answering pressure, light as the petal of a blossom that falls to the ground; but it sent a quick galvanic shock through my entire system.