The setting sun was just above the hills. In its magic light gleamed the surface of the water which covered the great semicircle between Golmberg and Wissow Hook. The slanting golden rays sent their blinding light into the eyes of Reinhold, who was just steering his boat from the sea into the bay, close past the White Dune, upon the steep side of which the long in-rolling wave was curling, while the boat swept past by its broad crest, and the points of the uniformly rising and falling oars almost touched the edge. The glances of the men who plied the oars were directed toward the Dune as they glided on, and the scene of rescue on the night of the storm was surely in the minds of all; but not one of them said a word. Not because it was against discipline. They knew that the Commander allowed a modest word at the right time, even when he was, as today, in full uniform, and wore the iron cross on his breast; but he had drawn the three-cornered hat far down over his face, and, if he lifted his eyes quickly once more to examine the course, they did not look threatening today; they had not yet seen threats in his eyes, any more than they had heard harsh words from his lips--but lips serious and sad. They did not wish to disturb the Commander in his thoughts--more serious and sad than the brave men might entertain or could comprehend. What were the two people to them whom they had rescued from the peril of death on this Dune, with unspeakable effort and hundredfold mortal peril to each one of them--what were the few people to them whom they had rescued because it was their duty, or the others whom they had already rescued during the day! How the Count and the noble lady got there, what relation the two sustained to each other--why should they ask about that? But he!