"Do not try to speak now, John!" she whispered softly, her finger at my lips. "I can only thank the good God who has brought you back to me." I made no effort to say more; I could only lie in silence and gaze up at her, pressing the hands resting so frankly within my own. Indeed, we needed no words in that hour; our hearts had spoken, and thenceforward we were one. Suddenly the heavy boat lurched beneath us, to some quick impetus that sent a shudder through every inch of it; and I heard a heavy splash alongside, which instantly brought me upright, anxiously grasping the rail. "May Heaven help him!" cried Burns excitedly, and pointing out at the black waters. "The Frenchman has gone overboard!" "Overboard?" I echoed, striving to regain my feet. "Did he fall?" "Fall? No; it was a dive off the back seat here. Save me! but he went into it like a gull." We sought for him long and vainly, peering over those dark swirling waters, calling his name aloud, and striking flint on steel in hope to guide him by the spark. Nothing appeared along the rolling surface, no answering cry came from the black void; De Croix had disappeared into the depths, as desperate men go down to death. Suddenly, as I leaned over, sick at heart, peering into the dimness, Toinette drew near and touched me softly. "Let us not mourn," she said, in strange quietness. "No doubt 't is better so." "How?" I questioned, shocked at her seemingly heartless words. "Surely you cannot rejoice at such a loss?" "'T is not a loss," she answered firmly, and the soft moon-rays were white upon her face. "He has only gone back to her we left behind; it was the beckoning hand of love that called him through the waters. Now it is only ours to pray that he may find her." CHAPTER XXXVI IN THE NEW GRAY DAWN