The day had left in his brain a crowd of unassimilated actions, and into this formless company came the thrilling mystery of his last moment with her--a shining cord of happiness for the labyrinth of the late days.... There had been so much _beyond words_ between them--an overtone of singing. He had seen in her eyes all the eager treasure of brimming womanhood, rising to burst the bonds of repression for the first time. Dawn was a far voyage, but he settled himself to wait with the will of a weathered voyager whose heart feels the hungry arms upon the waiting shore. The volcano lost its monstrous rhythm again, and was ripping forth irregular crashes. Father Fontanel awoke and the _Rue Victor Hugo_ became alive with voices, aroused by the rattling in the throat of the mountain. Charter went into the room where the priest lay. "Come, Father," he said, "We have waited long for you. I want you to go out to the ship for the rest of the night. You must breathe true air for an hour. Do this for me." "Ah, my son!" the old man murmured, drawing Charter's head down to his breast. "My mind was clouded, and I could not see you clearly in the travail of yesterday." "Many of your people are in Fort de France, Father," the young man added. "They will be glad to see you. Then you may come back here--even to-morrow, if you are stronger. Besides, the stalwart friend who has done so much for your people, wants you one night on his ship." "Yes, my son.... I was waiting for you. I shall be glad to breathe the dawn at sea." Peter Stock pressed Charter's hand as they led Father Fontanel forth. The mountain was quieter again. The bells of Saint Pierre rang the hour of two.... The three reached the Sugar Landing where the _Saragossa's_ launch lay. "Hello, Ernst," Stock called to his man. "I've kept you waiting long, but top-speed to the ship--deep water and ocean air!" The launch sped across the smoky harbor, riding down little isles of flotsam, dead birds from the sky and nameless mysteries from the roiled bed of the harbor. The wind was hot in their faces, like a stoke-hold blast. Often they heard a hissing in the water, like the sound of a wet finger touching hot iron. A burning cinder fell upon Charter's hand, a messenger from Pelée. He could not feel fire that night.... He was living over that last moment with her--gazing into her eyes as one who seeks to penetrate the mystery of creation, as if it were any clearer in a woman's eyes than in a Nile night, a Venetian song, or in the flow of gasolene to the spark, which filled the contemplation of Ernst.... He remembered the swift intaking of her breath at the last, and knew that she was close to tears.