"Yes! What is it? Aunt Marguerite ill?" Harry Vine started up, listening. "Did any one call?" There was no reply, and he sat there listening, still with the impression strong upon him that he had heard some one knock at his bedroom door and call him by name. Then a curious sense of confusion came over him as he tried to make out what it meant. His head was hot, but his hands were cold, and he felt that he ought to know something which constantly eluded his mental grasp. Land--rock--water running, gurgling, and splashing, and utter darkness. Where was he? What did it all mean? For a long time the past was a blank. Then, as he sat with his hands pressed to his head, staring wildly before him, it all came back like a flash--his trouble, the escape, the long swim, and his taking refuge in this cave. Then he must have slept all day, and it was now night, or else the tide had risen above the mouth of the entrance, and the water was slowly rising to strangle him, and, Heaven have mercy upon him, there was no escape! He began to creep down slowly toward the water, determined to swim with the next retiring wave, and try to reach the shore. Even if he drowned in the effort it would be better than sitting there in that horrible cave, waiting for a certain death. But he found that comparatively he had to descend some distance before he could feel the water, and as he touched it with his extended hand, he fancied that he could detect a gleam of light. For a long time he could not convince himself that it was not fancy, but at last he was sure that there was a faint reflection as from a star whose light struck obliquely in. Then the mouth of the cave was open still, and he could swim out if he wished. But did he wish? He felt about, and in a short time could distinguish by the sense of touch how high the tide had risen, and that it had not been within a couple of feet of where he had lain, where the sand was quite warm still. He too was dry, and therefore it must be night, and he had been plunged in a state of stupor for many hours. Suddenly a thought struck him. He had a match-box in his pocket, a little tight-fitting, silver match-box, which held a few cigar-lights. That match-box was inside his cigar-case, and both fitted so tightly that the water might have been kept out. A light, if only for a few moments, would convince him of his position, and then there were his cigars. He was ravenously hungry now, and if he smoked that would perhaps dull the sensation. He drew out his cigar-case and opened it, and took out a cigar. This was dry comparatively; and as with trembling fingers he felt the little silver case, he wondered whether it closed tightly enough to keep out the water. He took out a match. It felt dry, and the box was quite warm, but when he gave the match one rub on the sand-faced end, he obtained nothing but a faint line of light.