"'Not exactly as in heaven,' said I, and took out from a breast-pocket under my jumper a small flask of yellow Chartreuse, which I had snatched up among other small belongings from my state-room locker ten minutes before the _Eurotas_ went down. I had nursed it with a very jealous purpose. . . . Farrell should not slip through my fingers by dying, while I could yet force a stimulant down his throat, to linger him out. . . . It was a tiny 'sample' flask, and had been pressed on my acceptance, as a small flourish of trade, by a German wine-dealer in Valparaiso. . . . And here at the crisis, with Farrell dying at my feet, on an instant I renounced my purpose. "'Drink this,' I commanded Santa, 'and you shall live some hours yet. And then, if there _be_ an island--' "She caught at it with a delighted cry, her hands suddenly vitalised. The guitar slid down from her lap. She drew out the glass stopper, holding the flask up a moment to the setting sun and letting it blaze through the liquid. Then swiftly, as I made sure she would carry it to her lips, she bent over Farrell and whispered some soft word of the night that pierced his stupor so that he stirred and lolled his head around. . . . Yes, and for a farewell kiss--which I watched without jealousy. . . . "But as their mouths drew apart, and before his swollen lips could close again, she had slipped the mouth of the flask between them and the cordial was pouring down his throat. . . . "She had defeated me. . . . I watched her without uttering a word. Farrell let out a guttural sort of _ah-h!_ and sat up somewhat higher against her knee, opening his chest and breathing in new life as the Chartreuse coursed through his veins. Santa turned the flask upside-down, and handed it to me. "'I have won!' she said softly. 'Men at the last are--what is the word?--magnanimous, mostly: and that is why a woman can usually win in the end.' "'You have thrown away,' said I, 'so much of life as I gave you, renouncing much. You have sacrificed yourself.' "'That was _my_ share of the price, my friend. Now continue to be great, as for these many days you have been good. There is a bad pain about my heart. With that other small bottle of yours, and with that needle I have seen you use . . . You will? Ah, how much better it is to be friends than enemies, when the world--even this little shrinking world--is so wide yet--so wide--'