asleep, and it had never ceased while he slept. This was something
irregular, something out of tune with it, and rising above it. He
listened intently, every nerve and pulse alive, body and mind at the
high pitch of excitement, and then the sound came again, low but
distinct, and rising above the steady crash of the storm.

He knew the note. He had heard it often, too often on that terrible day
at Ticonderoga. It could be but one thing. It was the boom of a cannon,
and it could come only from a ship, a ship in danger, a ship driven by
the storm, knowing nothing of either sea or island, sending forth her
signal of distress which was also a cry for help.

It was his ship! The ship of rescue! But he must first rescue _it_! Now
he heard the voices of the good spirits, the voices that had been silent
all through the afternoon and evening, singing through the storm,
calling to him, summoning him to action. He had not taken off his
clothes and he leaped from the couch, snatched up a lighted lantern,
stuffed flint and steel in his pocket, and ran out into the wind and
rain, of which he was now scarcely conscious.

The boom came to his ears a second time, off to the east, and now
distinctly the report of a cannon. He waited a little, watching, and,
when the report came a third time, he saw dimly the flash of the gun,
but it was too dark for him to see anything of the ship. She was outside
the reefs, how far he could not tell, but he knew by the difference in
the three reports that she was driving toward the island.

It was for him to save the unknown vessel that was to save him, and in
the darkness and storm he felt equal to the task. His soul leaped within
him. His whole body seemed to expand. He knew what to do, and, quick as