The very silence aroused them, startled both into a swift realization of that dreary waste in which they floated helplessly alone, a drifting chip on the face of the waters. Her eyes swept the crest of the waves, and she withdrew herself partially from his arms.
"Why, we must be crazed to dream of happiness here," she exclaimed. "Was there ever before so strange a confession of love? I am trying to be brave--but--but that is too much; that waste of green water, with the grey sky overhead. There is no ending to it--just death mocking us in every wave. Oh, Matthew, can this be all? Only this little moment, and then--the end?"
He held her hands tightly, his heart throbbing, but his courage and hope high.
"No, dear," he whispered eagerly. "Don't think that for a moment. We have passed through too much to dream of such an ending now. There will be ships--there must be. Look! what is that, yonder against the sky-line? It is, sweet-heart; it is the smoke of a steamer."