This page needs to be proofread.
220
THE ISLE OF SEVEN MOONS
hours of the night. So she sat up in her berth, a wistful little figure in white, with two dusky braids falling over her breast, and looked at it through the porthole. And those mysteriously waving palms! Did any sorrow lie hidden in their shadows! What was that—the cry of some night bird of ill omen? And that far-off faint roar! The slender figure shivered. Would he be there to meet her at dawn? Had anything happened to him? Could he have …!
