I shouted back my disbelief in the necessity of any such messages, when Mary Phillips seized her trumpet and cried that she did not hear me.

Alas! the breeze was still blowing, and the steamer was moving away to the northeast.  Through my trumpet I repeated my words, and then Mary said something which I could not hear.  The wind was against her.  I shouted to her to speak louder, and she must have screamed with all her force, but I could only hear some words to the effect that we were bound to come together again, and she waved her handkerchief cheerily.

Then the steamer moved farther and farther away, and speaking-trumpets were of no avail.  I seized the glass, and watched La Fidelite, until she was nothing but a black spot upon the sea.

The wind grew lighter, and finally died away, and the black spot remained upon the horizon.  I did not take my eyes from it until night drew on and blotted it out.  I had not thought of advising Mary Phillips to hang out a light, and she was probably not sufficiently accustomed to the ways of ships to think of doing it herself, although there could be no doubt that there were lanterns suitable for the purpose on the steamer.  Had there been a light upon that vessel, I should have watched the glimmer all night.  As it was, I slept upon the deck, waking frequently to peer out into the darkness, and to listen for a hail from a speaking-trumpet.

In the morning there was a black spot upon the horizon.  I fancied that it was a little nearer than when I last saw it; but in the course of the forenoon it faded away altogether.  Then despair seized upon me, and I cared not whether I lived or died.  I forgot to eat, and threw myself upon the deck, where I remained for several hours, upbraiding myself for my monstrous, unpardonable folly in neglecting the opportunities which were now lost.

Over and over again I told myself bitterly, that when I had been near enough to the vessel which bore Bertha Nugent to converse with Mary Phillips without the aid of a speaking-trumpet, I should have tried to reach that vessel, no matter what the danger or the difficulties.  I should have launched a raft—­I should have tried to swim—­I should have done something.

And more than that, even had it been impossible for me to reach the steamer, I should have endeavored to reach Bertha’s heart.  I should have told her that I loved her.  Whether she were lost or I were lost, or both of us, she should have known I loved her.  She might not have been able to answer me, but she could have heard me.  For that terrible mistake, that crime, there was no pardon.  Now every chance was gone.  What reason was there to suppose that these two derelicts ever again would drift together?

In the afternoon I rose languidly and looked about me.  I saw something on the horizon, and seizing the glass, I knew it to be La Fidelite.  I could recognize the slant of the hull, of the masts.