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 such a moment to confess her hopeless state seemed awful. “Try,” he said with a gasp. “No,” she answered, “I do not fear to die. Death cannot be worse than life is for most of us. I have not prayed for years, not since—well, never mind. I am not a coward. It would be cowardly to pray now because I may be wrong. If there is a God who knows all, He will understand that.” Geoffrey said no more, but laboured at the broken paddle gallantly and with an ever-failing strength. The lightning had passed away and the darkness was very great, for the hurrying clouds hid the starlight. Presently a sound arose above the turmoil of the storm, a crashing thunderous sound towards which the send of the sea gradually bore them. The sound came from the waves that beat upon the Bryngelly reef. “Where are we drifting to?” he cried. “Into the breakers, where we shall be lost,” she answered calmly. “Give up paddling, it is of no use, and try to take off your coat. I have loosened my skirt. Perhaps we can swim ashore.” He thought to himself that in the dark and breakers such an event was not probable, but he said nothing, and addressed himself to the task of getting rid of his coat and waistcoat—no easy one in that confined space. Meanwhile the canoe was whirling round and round like a walnut shell upon a flooded gutter. For some distance before the waves broke upon the reef and rocks they swept in towards them with a steady foamless swell. On reaching the shallows, however, they pushed their white shoulders high into the air, curved up and fell in thunder on the reef. The canoe rode towards the breakers, sucked upon its course by a swelling sea. “Good-bye,” called Geoffrey to Beatrice, as stretching out his wet hand he found her own and took it, for companionship makes death a little easier. “Good-bye,” she cried, clinging to his hand. “Oh, why did I bring you into this?” For in their last extremity this woman thought rather of her companion in peril than of herself. One more turn, then suddenly the canoe beneath them was lifted like a straw and tossed high into the air. A mighty mass of water boiled up beneath it and around it. Then the foam rushed in, and vaguely Geoffrey knew that they were wrapped in the curve of a billow. A swift and mighty rush of water. Crash!—and his senses left him. CHAPTER IV. THE WATCHER AT THE DOOR