Night fell again and its coolness freshened him. His fancy likened the light touch of the wind to Sally's own upon his brow. And once again the stars smiled on the man lashed to the bit of boating spar, speaking of hope. But Hope is a frail thing, delicate as any bird, and Despair has long clutching arms that forever drag one under.
Another dawn. More hours of pitiless sun. Now in his disordered imaginings he heard the sound of bells—bells—bells everywhere. At first he thought they were bell-buoys, all around him, rung by phantom hands to mock him. Now it was the bell in the old church at home, its brazen tones multiplied a thousand times, tolling his own knell.
"Ding-dong, ding-dong"—why couldn't he drive their ringing from his head.
Again they became ships' bells telling the time.
"How long have I been drifting, drifting! They must have tolled a thousand, thousand hours—enough time for all eternity."
"Ding-dong, ding-dong," to the rising and falling of the waves. Why couldn't he get them out of his head!
Perhaps back in her home in Salthaven, Sally, with the premonition God gives, they say, to faithful lovers, was praying hard for him, for a favouring wind sprang up, refreshing the shipwrecked sailor, silencing the incessant tones of those dreadful bells, and wafting him towards an unknown shore.
He rubbed his eyes he feared a mirage. No, it persisted, that dark line, a little heavier and deeper than the sea-rim, like a deep-blue stroke of crayon on a thin line of lighter
