"Impossible!" says Fabian. "There is not room for another. If we come back again unsuccessful, I promise you, you shall try your chance then. Here, don't look so gloomy, but hold my coat, and keep it dry, as I daresay I shall be chilly enough when I get back to you." He speaks with the utmost cheerfulness, indeed with a subdued gayety that might emanate from a quiet man just starting on a pleasurable expedition. "Do you know the danger?" says Roger, in a broken voice, clinging to his hand, but feeling that all remonstrance will be in vain. "Tut! why should there be more danger for me than for another? Now go back to her--she is there, is she not? my _dear_ little Dulce. Tell her from me-- No!--tell her nothing. Good-by, old man; wish me a safe return till I come; and--and--be good to her--always love her--" He turns abruptly aside, and, springing down from the rock where he has been standing, finds himself again on the beach. He is hurrying once more toward the boat, which having sustained some slight injuries in its last attempt is not quite seaworthy, but requires some looking after by the men before they can start afresh, when he is stopped by the pressure of two soft hands upon his arm. Turning, he looks into Portia's eyes. She is haggard, ghastly in her pallor, but unspeakably beautiful. Her fair hair, having come undone, is waving lightly in the tempestuous wind. Her lips are parted. "You are not going _out there_?" she says, pointing with a shudder to the tumultuous waves, and speaking in a tone so full of agony and reckless misery that it chills him. "You _shall_ not! Do you hear? Fabian! Fabian! listen to me." It is so dark and wild that no one can see her; no ears but his can hear. She flings herself in a passion of despair upon her knees before him, and encircles him with her arms. "My darling! My best beloved, stay with me!" she cries, wildly. "Hate me--spurn me--live--_live_! that sea will tear you from me--it will kill--" Stooping over her, with a very gentle movement, but with determination, he unclasps her clinging arms and raises her to her feet. "You must not kneel there on the wet sand," he says, quietly; "and forgive me if I remind you of it, but you will not care to remember all this to-morrow." "I shall not remember it to-morrow," replies she, in a strange, dreamy tone, her hands falling nerveless at her sides. She does not seek to touch or persuade him again, only gazes earnestly up at him, through the wretched mist that enshrouds them, with a face that is as the faces of the dead. Upon his arm is a shawl one of the women below (he is very dearly beloved in the village) had forced upon him an hour ago. He is bringing it back now to return it to her before starting, but, a thought striking him, he unfolds it, and crosses it over Portia's bosom. "One of the women down there lent it to me," he says, coldly still, but kindly. "Return it to her when you can."