But he eyed the inrush of the sea with much disfavor, so he leaped up

on the table beside Elsie, and looked at her as though he would ask why

she had permitted this sacrilege.

Though the dog was apparently unscathed and in the best of condition,

his head and forepaws were blood-stained. His advent dispelled the

mist which was gathering in the girl's brain. She feared a tragedy,

yet Joey assuredly would not be so cheerful, so daintily desirous to

avoid the splashing water in the cabin, if his master were injured.

She was doubtful now whether to go on deck or not. The mere presence

of the dog was a guarantee that Courtenay had not quitted the ship.

Indeed, Elsie colored again, and more deeply, at the disloyalty of her

ungoverned fear. Joey's master would be the last man to desert a

woman, no matter what the excuse. She strove to listen for any

significant noises without, but wind and sea rendered the effort

useless to untrained ears, and there was no shooting or frenzied yells

to rise above the storm.

"Oh, Joey," she said, "I wish you could speak!"

The sound of her own voice startled her. In a fashion, it gave her a

measure of time. It seemed so long since she had heard a spoken word.

The captain could certainly have gone round the whole ship since he

left her. What could have detained him? She was yielding to

nervousness again, and was on the point of venturing out, at least as

far as the deck-house ran, to see if she could distinguish what was

taking place on the after part of the vessel, when Dr. Christobal

entered.

"I suppose you thought you were forgotten," he cried with a pleasant

smile, for Christobal would have a smile for a woman even on his

death-bed. "There, now! Don't try to explain your feelings. You have

had a very trying time, and I want you to oblige me by drinking this."

"This" was a glass of champagne, which he hurriedly poured out of a

small bottle he was carrying into a glass which he produced from a

pocket. The trivial action, no less than Dr. Christobal's manner,

suggested that they were engaged in some fantastic picnic. The outer

horrors were not for them, apparently. They were as secure as

sight-seers in the Cave of the Winds, awe-smitten tourists who cling to

a rail while mighty Niagara thunders harmlessly overhead.

The mere sight of the wine caused Elsie to realize that her lips and

palate were on fire with salt. At one moment she had not the slightest

cognizance of her suffering; at the next, she felt that speech was

impossible until she drank. Never before had she known what thirst

was. A somewhat inferior vintage suddenly assumed a bouquet which

surpassed the finest cru ever dreamt of by Marne valley vigneron.




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