Fastened simply with her wooden skewers, she had one blanket draped about her as a skirt, and another covered her shoulders, with a high peak behind her neck, like a monkish cloak. And inside this rough calyx the fair white column of her neck rose out of its surrounding frillery like the stamen of a flower from its nest of petals. Her abundant hair, combed and brushed, but still lacking somewhat of its natural lustre, was coiled about her head in heavy plaits. Though her garments were only rough blankets they were so disposed about her person that she stood before them tall and slim and graceful. Her eyes and face were all aglow at the novelty of her situation. Her feet were bare. She sailed up to the mate with outstretched hand. "It was you who brought me ashore out of that terrible sea," she said, and her voice was no longer hoarse and husky. "I thank you with all my heart." Macro ducked his head but never took his eyes off her. "Gosh! Ye looked very different then, miss," he jerked. "We scarce expected ye'd ever come round like this." "I am the more grateful. But--what a wonderful room you have!"--as she looked round at the mate's barbaric hangings. "Silks and satins!--and such gorgeous colours!" "There's bales of them about, miss, and you're very welcome to them. They'd look better on you than them blankets." "But the blankets are warm, and the dreadful chill of the sea is still in my thoughts all the time. Now I would go on deck and understand about this strange ship of yours," and Macro hastened to lead the way and Wulfrey followed. "But it is truly amazing," she said, as she gazed round at the sandhills and the spit, at the tumbling waves beyond, and the unruffled waters of the lake. "And another ship! Who lives there?" "No one. There is not another soul on the whole island but we three," said Wulfrey. "It sounds dreadfully lonely." "It is not so lonely as the sea." "No, it is not so lonely as the sea. The sea is dreadful, and oh, so-o-o cold when you are dying in it slowly, an inch at a time," and she shivered again at the recollection. "You must try to forget all about it." "I shall never forget it. That is not possible. The memory of it is frozen into my soul. What noise is that?" she asked, listening intently with her hand uplifted. "It's a great cloud of sea-birds that haunts the island. All the wrecks come ashore at that end, and they live there most of the time." "It is like the wailing of lost souls." "Right, miss!" broke in Macro. "That's what it is. They're only birds, mebbe, but there's the souls of the dead inside 'em, an' sometimes they're fair deevils when they come screaming round in a storm." "I could believe that,--the souls of the dead without a doubt." "Suppose we turn to something pleasanter," suggested Wulfrey. "Perhaps you will choose out the things you think most suitable from all that the mate brought over from the wrecks?"