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He was alive, and his world was again in motion. Seas lifted and dropped him, occasionally breaking over his head. In the calm of the hollows, he listened for voices of possible rescuers. On the tops of the seas,–ears filled with the roar of the gale,–he shouted, facing to leeward, and searching with strained eyes for sign of the ship or one of her boats. At last he saw a pin-point of light far away, and around it and above it blacker darkness, which was faintly shaped to the outline of a ship and canvas–hove to in the trough, with maintopsail aback, as he knew by its foreshortening. And even as he looked and shouted it faded away. He screamed and cursed, for he wanted to live. He had survived that terrible fall, and it was his right.

Something white showed on the top of a sea to leeward and sank in a hollow. He sank with it, and when he rose again it was nearer.

“Boat ahoy!” he sang out. “Boat ahoy!–this way–port a little–steady.”

He swam as he could, cumbered by the life-buoy, and with every heaving sea the boat came nearer. At last he recognized it–the ship’s dinghy; and it was being pulled into the teeth of that forceful wind and sea by a single rower–a slight figure in yellow.

“It’s Freda,” he exclaimed; and then, in a shout: “This way, Miss Folsom–a little farther.”

She turned, nodded, and pulled the boat up to him. He seized the gunwale, and she took in the oars.

“Can you climb in alone, John?” she asked in an even voice–as even as though she were asking him to have more tea. “Wait a little,–I am tired,–and I will help you.”

She was ever calm and dispassionate, but he wondered at her now; yet he would not be outdone.

“I’ll climb over the stern, Freda, so as not to capsize you. Better go forward to balance my weight.”

She did so. He pulled himself to the stern, slipped the life-buoy over his head and into the boat, then, by a mighty exercise of all his strength, vaulted aboard with seeming ease and sat down on a thwart. He felt a strong inclination to laughter and tears, but repressed himself; for masculine hysterics would not do before this young woman. She came aft to the next thwart, and when he felt steadier he said:

“You have saved my life, Freda; but thanks are idle now, for your own is in danger. Give me the oars. We must get back to the ship.”

She changed places with him, facing forward, and said wearily, as he shipped the oars: “So you want to get back?”

“Why, yes; don’t you? We are adrift in an open boat.”

“The wind is going down, and the seas do not break,” she answered, in the same weary voice. “It does not rain any more, and we will have the moon.”

A glance around told him that she spoke truly. There was less pressure to the wind, and the seas rose and fell, sweeping past them like moving hills of oil. Moonlight shining through thinning clouds faintly illumined her face, and he saw the expressionless weariness of her voice, and a sad, dreamy look in her gray eyes.

“How did you get the dinghy down, Freda?” he asked. “And why did no one come with you?”

“Father was asleep, and the mate was incompetent. I had my revolver, and they backed the yards for me and threw the dinghy over. I had loosened the gripes as you went aloft. I thought you would fall. Still–no one would come.”

“And you came alone,” he said in a broken voice, “and pulled this boat to windward in this sea. You are a wonder.”

“I saw you catch the life-buoy. Why did you fall? You were cautioned.”

“I forgot the foot-rope. I was thinking of you.”

“You are like the mate. He forgot the foot-rope all day because he was thinking of me. I should have gone aloft and seized it myself.”