"That woman's influence must have been infernal in its power, for in the midst of this storm he had been impelled forth to the heights--he, a feeble old man, urged forward by a premonition, that, in the black turmoil of the tempest, he would find something waited for all his life. He went, with his garments in the wind, and the cold rain beating against his temples--went, and saw, in the midst of the storm, a great ship heaving shoreward, with vast clouds falling around her, lurid and luminous with a red sunset, in the midst of which stood that woman--the prisoner. As he watched, a young man had come up to him on the heights, even Norman Lovel, the youth who was but now whispering to the woman. This young man confessed there, in the whirl of the wind, that he, too, had been impelled to seek the shore, and look for some great good, which was to come to him up from the stormy sea. "They saw the ship in company. That woman was upon its deck, around her surged angry billows and looming clouds, fringed for a moment by the sunset. "They saw the woman come down the side of the vessel, where it rocked and plunged like a desert horse in the lasso; saw her put off in a small boat, amid the boiling waves; saw the boat leap and reel toward the land. He and young Lovel rushed down together to the base of the hills, far into the waves. They saw the boat strike, saw it crushed into atoms among the rocks, and saw the woman weltering in a whirlpool of waters. The two, he and the young man, rushed into the waves, breasted them, battled with them like lions. A wild strength came to his arms, a supernatural power, that neither belonged to his feeble organization nor his age. From that time, no doubt, the evil one possessed him. How he tore the woman from the waves that had engulfed her he never knew; for the youth was hurled upon the shore, cold and dead, grasping her garments with both hands. "The youth was dead, he could solemnly testify to that, for he felt his pulse, and kept one hand long over his heart feeling for the hushed life, but there was neither breath nor pulse--Lazarus, in his tomb, was not more lifeless when the Saviour looked upon him. Yes, the youth was surely dead. But when the woman arose from the sand, with her hair dropping salt rain, and her lips purple with cold, she saw him lying there, prone and white at her side. Then her pale face lighted up with supernatural gleams. She lifted his head and breathed upon it. She gathered him to her bosom, and pressed her cold lips down upon his forehead and his marble mouth--those kisses, the unearthly warmth of her eyes, brought him to life. She had purchased immortality of the evil one, and gave part of it to him.