tiful shoulder shrugged towards the other girl, who was helping in the search, fifty yards from where they stood. The gesture was slight, for open jealousy might bring about the very thing she feared.
"The life of a spark then, blown by the wind," he returned, thinking how like his life, how unlike his own feeling, the figure was. "It dances merrily, a little way—then—puff—it is gone."
"When a woman loves truly—it is no little spark." One word followed, a French term of endearment, so low as to be almost unheard. "It is a great fire that burns always, like that in the old mountain you tell me of—very warm—and very deep. The wild tornado cannot blow it out—only the cold earth, when one is very old."
She sighed once—a long troubled sigh with a little catch in it, and he did not know what to answer, except:
"You will forget, Linda—and you will be happy."
"Never, Monsieur—but it is not for a woman to speak so. Already I have said too much"
Pierre had reached them and interrupted volubly. Point-blank, he refused to sail that morning. He had heard of the gold. Men of his shrewd, crafty type could smell it out very quickly. Protests were vain and Larone, with the few francs left, could advance no substantial argument which the sullen Pierre would understand. Not one league would the little launch sail until he had his share of the gold.
The boatman sat him down on the sand, and set to making an hour-glass of his hands, which was of small practical help, all the while casting crafty glances over his shoulder at the
