CHAPTER XX
With the going down of that day's sun a long, heavy swell, accompanied by the lightest of breezes, set in from the southwest. It was an ominous sign to Lavelle, nor could he conceal this thought when he carried Emily's evening meal to her. She asked him to bring his food and eat it in the tent entrance.
The castaways ate their pitiable rations in silence, but before this short time passed the island was moving in concert with the heave of the sea.
A shocking, sense-stunning crash where a part of the western cliff slithered down into the deep sounded the end of the meal. While the roar was dying away the eyes of the man and woman met and held in a glance of understanding.
"This is—is the end?" Emily asked in a low voice.
"I think—it is not very far off, little woman," he answered. He told her this truth because he knew hers was a spirit unafraid. By it she knew that he knew and understood many things which words might not encompass.
"I thank you—so much," was her answer. She spoke with a frank gladness. But the slightest quaver was in her voice.
Lavelle left her to build up the signal fire. He felt certain that it was for the last time. It was to him the funeral pyre of a hope which died by the minute, and he laid on the fuel with unsparing hand. Some night-borne craft might by miracle see its gleam, yet the light of a moon in all the splendor of fullness lessened this remotest of possibilities to the barest minimum.
Although Lavelle was gone from the tent but a little while, it seemed an eternal time to the woman, who waited for his return. And when he came her eyes were dry; and she held out a hand for him to help her to her feet.