With the brightening of the prospect Elizabeth had drawn away from Archdale, and they had joined the others who had revived a little in the new hope. All were breathless with suspense, for the next few moments were more full of instant peril than those that had gone before. At any moment they might strike, and then—half a mile or more of foaming water between them and the shore, while the two frail boats that they had to make the passage in would not hold them all.
The storm on shore was remembered for years as something nearer a tropical hurricane than had been known ever to have visited New England.
The boat swept on. Once there came a sound that made the listeners shiver, but the keel grated and passed over, the point was rounded, and they entered calmer water, wild enough, however, and found the wind still falling and the place more sheltered.
But it was not for some time, and not without great danger in the passage, that all the party stepped again upon land.
They were miles away from their homes, and must find present shelter, and such conveyance as they could.
On the way to a farm-house that had opened its doors to them, Archdale, who had been helping in getting the company on shore, joined Elizabeth. He took the shawl that she was carrying and threw it over his arm, making use of the opportunity to say a few words to her in an undertone.
He never forgot the expression with which she looked up at him. Embarrassment and amusement threw a veil over her gratitude for their safety, and over that new force in her that danger had revealed.
"You would not have had everything all your own way so readily," she said, "if—if—I mean, I—I should not have"—She stopped.
A terrible fear seized upon Archdale.
"You regret what you said? You did not mean it, Elizabeth?" His lips were dry. He spoke with difficulty. It had seemed to him too wonderful for belief.