As she spoke the steamer slid and lifted off the reef. For a few moments she wallowed; then suddenly her stern settled, her prow rose slowly in the air till it stood up straight, fifty or sixty feet of it. Then, with a majestic, but hideous rush, down went the Trondhjem and vanished for ever. All round about her the sea boiled and foamed, while in the great hollow which she made on the face of the waters black lumps of wreckage appeared and disappeared. “Tight! hold tight!” he cried, “or she will suck us after her.” Suck she did, till the water poured over the gunwale. Then, the worst passed, and the boat rose again. The foam bubbles burst or floated away in little snowy heaps; the sea resumed its level, and, save for the floating debris, became as it had been for thousands of years before the lost Trondhjem rushed downward to its depths. Now, for the first time, knowing the immediate peril past, Morris looked at the face of his companion. It was a fine face, and beautiful in its way. Dark eyes, very large and perfect, whereof the pupils seemed to expand and contract in answer to every impulse of the thoughts within. Above the eyes long curving lashes and delicately pencilled, arched eyebrows, and above them again a forehead low and broad. The chin rounded; the lips full, rich, and sensitive; the complexion of a clear and beautiful pallor; the ears tiny; the hands delicate; the figure slim, of medium height, and alive with grace; the general effect most uncommon, and, without being lovely, breathing a curious power and personality. Such was the woman whom he had saved from death. “Oh, how splendid!” she said in her deep voice, and clasping her hands. “What a death! For ship or man, what a death! And after it the great calm sea, taking and ready to take for ever.” “Thank Heaven that it did not take you,” answered Morris wrathfully. “Why?” she answered. “Because you are still alive, who by now would have been dead.” “It seems that it was not fated this time,” she answered, adding: “The next it may be different.” “Yes,” he said reflectively; “the next it may be different, Miss Fregelius.” She started. “How do you know my name?” she asked. “From your father’s lips. He is ashore at my house. The sailors must have seen the light in my workshop and steered for it.” “My father?” she gasped. “He is still alive? But, oh, how is that possible? He would never have left me.” “Yes, he lives, but with a broken thigh and his head cut open. He was brought ashore senseless, so you need not be ashamed of him. Those sailors are the cowards.” She sighed, as though in deep relief. “I am very glad. I had made up my mind that he must be dead, for of course I knew that he would never have left me otherwise. It did not occur to me that he might be carried away senseless. Is he—” and she paused, then added: “tell me the worst—quick.”