A dart of wild dismay went through her as keen as physical pain, but in
a moment it was gone. For though he held her caught against his breast
and covered her face with kisses that seemed to scorch her, it was not
fear that she felt so much as a gasping wonder that she was unafraid.
IX
When Pierre let her go, she fell, half-fainting, against the rail, and
must have sunk at his feet had he not sharply stooped and lifted her.
Profiting by a brief lull in the tempest, he bore her down the steps and
into the dark saloon. She lay quite passive in his arms, dazed,
exhausted, but still curiously devoid of fear.
He laid her upon a cushioned locker by the wall, and relighted the lamp.
Then, in utter silence, he carried her to her cabin beyond and left her
there. She had a single glimpse of his face as he turned away, and it
seemed to her that she had looked upon the face of a man in torture. He
went away without a word, and she was left alone.
And so for hours she lay, unmindful of the storm, regardless utterly of
aught that happened, lying with wide eyes and burning cheeks, conscious
only of that ever-growing wonder that was not fear.
At dawn the wind abated and the yacht began to pitch less. When the sun
had been up for a few hours, the gale of the night was a thing of the
past, and only the white-capped waves were left as a laughing reminder
of the storm that had passed over.
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