"Dying!" she cried. There was no color to fade from her face, but the
light died from her eyes, and the word faltered on her lips.
"Yes," he answered, "dying."
"Sophy, come to me," called her husband, in feeble tones.
She left the captain, and returned at once to his side. The low berth
was almost on the floor, and she had to kneel to bring her face nearer
to his. It was night, and the only light was the dim glimmer of an
oil-lamp, which the captain had hung to the ceiling, and which swung to
and fro with the lurching of the ship. The wind was whistling shrilly
among the rigging, and every plank and board in the vessel groaned and
creaked under the beating of the waves. Now and then her feet were
ankle-deep in water, and she dreaded to see it sweep over the low berth.
In the rare intervals of the storm she could hear the hurried movements
overhead, and the shouts of the sailors as they called to one another
from the rigging. But vaguely she heard, and saw, and felt. Her
husband's face, white and haggard and thin, with his gray hair and his
eyes sunken with unshed tears, was all that she could distinctly
realize.
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