He and his brother went
out in a dinghy to secure her. At dusk the wife, young, petite and
pretty, with strained anxiety watched the efforts of the men to beat back
to shelter. Darkness came, blotting out the scene and its climax. Never
after was anything seen or heard of the brothers or the yacht. And for
nearly a fortnight the disconsolate wife and her little ones were alone on
the island.
Ten years later, on one of the two bare patches of sand, another
BECHE-DE-MER smoke-house was built. While the owner a swarthy Arabian,
was out on the reef miles away, a phenomenally high tide occurred. His
wife--a comely girl of British descent--was alone on the shoal. She
watched the rising water apprehensively, until all the sand was covered
save the few feet on which the frail shelter stood. One more ripple and
the floor was swamped. Then, wading and swimming, she managed to reach a
punt, and so saved her life. Since then these patches of sand have not
been regarded as a safe outpost even by those most venturesome of
people--BECHE-DE-MER fishers.
This is not an apology, but a confession; not a plea of defence, but a
justification--a fair and free chronicle, a frank acknowledgment of the
tributes of impartial Neptune--Neptune who gives and who takes away--who
stealthily filches with tireless fingers, and who, when in the mood, robs
so remorselessly, and with such awful, such majestic violence, that it
were impious to whimper.
Pages:
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107