The thought of his wealth suddenly flashed into Sigrid’s mind, giving her a momentary pang; yet, since she really loved him, it was impossible that this should be a lasting barrier between them. She looked out over the sea, and the thought of her old home, and of the debts, and the slow struggle to pay them, came to her; yet all the time she knew that these could not separate her from Roy. She loved him, and the world’s praise or blame were just nothing to her. She could not care in the least about the way in which such a marriage would be regarded by outsiders. She loved him; and when once sure that her marriage would be right—that it would not be selfish, or in any way bad in its effects on either Frithiof or Swanhild—it was impossible that she should hesitate any longer. But of this she was not yet quite sure. All had come upon her so suddenly that she felt as if she must have time to think it out quietly before making a definite promise. “Give me a fortnight,” she said, “and then I will let you have my answer. It would not be fair to either of us if I spoke hastily when so much is at stake.” Roy could not complain of this suggestion: it was much that he was able at last to plead his own cause with Sigrid, and in her frank blue eyes there lurked something which told him that he need fear no more. Meanwhile time sped on, and, unheeded by these two, the tide was coming in. They were so absorbed in their own affairs that it was not until a wave swept right into the little bay, leaving a foam-wreath almost at their feet, that they realized their danger. With a quick exclamation Roy started up. “What have I been thinking of?” he cried in dismay. “Why, we are cut off!” Sigrid sprang forward and glanced toward Britling Gap. It was too true. Return was absolutely impossible. “We could never swim such a distance,” she said. And turning, she glanced toward the steep white cliff above. “And that too is utterly impossible,” said Roy. “Our only hope is in some pleasure-boat passing. Stay, I have an idea.” Hastily opening his knife he began to scoop out footholds in the chalk. He saw that their sole chance lay in making a standing-place out of reach of the water, and he worked with all his might, first securing a place for the feet, then, higher up, scooping holes for the hands to cling to; he spoke little, his mind was too full of a torturing sense of blame, a bitter indignation with himself for allowing his very love to blind him to such a danger.