In such tension time scarcely exists, and it would have been hard for Fortuné to say how long he had battled with the immense hostility so suddenly arrayed against them, nor how much water Raymonde's aching arms had, with almost mechanical action, thrown overboard, before it began to seem to him that the smoother sea which followed every three vehement waves or so was of longer duration. Was it possible that the wind was abating? Only then, with the dawn of the first real ray of hope in his heart, did Fortuné become conscious too that with the lessening of the squall the island on their lee had disappeared, blotted out by the pall of mingled mist and rain which enshrouded them also. Perhaps they were still near it for all that? But since the roar of the breaking surf was no longer audible, it struck him that they must be drifting away from Sark, borne by one of those currents, perhaps, of which the boatman had spoken. "The worst is over, I think," he shouted to Raymonde. She nodded, stopping her baling for a moment to put back her dripping hair, and smiled--it was like a star coming out in a wet sky. And even as Fortuné shouted he realised that an ordinary tone would have carried to her ear. The uproar had ceased--nay, the wind had dropped almost dead; he could hardly get the jib to draw. They seemed to be motionless in a white silence, though doubtless they were moving faster than they knew. For an instant he thought of hoisting the mainsail again, then decided against it. Of what use advancing when they could see nothing and had no idea of direction? The sea was still agitated, lifting up countless plucking hands in uneasy bravado, but there was no danger in that. So he left the tiller and stooped over Raymonde. "That is enough. You have the better of it now, brave heart! My darling, my darling, how wet you are, and how cold!" He pulled her to him, and opening the breast of his soaked redingote made her pillow her head there. She shivered a little and clung to him, and a strange, cold, remote happiness descended upon them both as they drifted on, physically and mentally spent, in a sort of limbo between death and life--neither ghosts nor yet fully sentient, floating in a dream that was not a dream, and a reality that counterfeited illusion. All at once the pall of mist was rent in front of them with dramatic suddenness, and Fortuné had a momentary glimpse of something that looked like a great white wing. "Was that a sail?" asked Raymonde quietly, who had seen it too. "The sloop, as I live!" cried her lover, starting up. "Pray God she does not run us down!" He shouted lustily, then threw himself again on the tiller. But the damp white veil enclosed them once more. His shouts seemed to return upon themselves. Raymonde sat, her chin on her hand, on a thwart. He had never seen anyone so calm.