the darkness with her wide eyes, it wore, he thought, an almost defiant
air.

The canoe twisted round somewhat. He dug his broken paddle into the
water and once more brought her head on to the sea. Then he spoke.

"Are you afraid?" he asked of Beatrice.

"No," she answered, "I am not afraid."

"Do you know that we shall probably be drowned?"

"Yes, I know it. They say the death is easy. I brought you here. Forgive
me that. I should have tried to row you ashore as you said."

"Never mind me; a man must meet his fate some day. Do not think of
me. But I can't keep her head on much longer. You had better say your
prayers."

Beatrice bent forward till her head was quite near his own. The wind had
blown some of her hair loose, and though he did not seem to notice it at
the time, he remembered afterwards that a lock of it struck him on the
face.

"I cannot pray," she said; "I have nothing to pray to. I am not a
Christian."

The words struck him like a blow. It seemed so awful to think of
this proud and brilliant woman, now balanced on the verge of what she
believed to be utter annihilation. Even the courage that induced her at