into great waves and the surf dashed fiercely on the sharp teeth of the
rocks.

Robert's spirits fell. This was not the way in which a rescuing ship
should come, under a somber sky and before driving winds. Perhaps he had
read the voices of the spirits wrong, or at least the ship, instead of
coming now, was coming at some later time, a month or two months away
maybe. He watched through the rest of the afternoon, hoping that the
clouds would leave, but they only thickened, and, long before the time
of sunset, it was almost as dark as night. He was compelled to remain in
the shelter of the house, and, in a state of deep depression, he ate his
supper without appetite.

The storm was one of the fiercest he had seen while on the island. The
rain drove in sheets, beating upon the walls and roof of the house like
hail, and the wind kept up a continuous whistling and screaming. All the
while the house trembled over him. Nor was there any human voice in the
wind. The good spirits, if such existed, would not dare the storm, but
had retreated to cover. All the illusion was gone, he was just a lonely
boy on a lonely island, listening to the wrath of a hurricane, a ship
might or might not come, most probably never, or if it did it would be
another pirate.

The storm did not seem to abate as the evening went on, perhaps it was
the climax of the season. Tired of hearing its noise he lay down on his
couch and at last fell asleep. He was awakened from slumber by an impact
upon the drum of his ear like a light blow, but, sitting up, he realized
that it was a sound. The storm had not abated. He heard the beat of wind
and rain as before, but he knew it was something else that had aroused
him. The noise of the storm was regular, it was going on when he fell