It was a strange manner in which I had told my love.  I had roared my burning words of passion through a speaking-trumpet, and I had told them not to Bertha herself, but to Mary Phillips.  But the manner was of no importance.  Bertha now knew that I loved her.  That was everything to me.

As long as light remained I watched La Fidelite through the glass, but I could see nothing but a black form with a slanting upper line.  She was becalmed as I was.  Why could she not have been becalmed near me?  I dared not let my mind rest upon the opportunities I had lost when she had been becalmed near me.  During the night the wind must have risen again, for the Sparhawk rolled and dipped a good deal, troubling my troubled slumbers.  Very early in the morning I was awakened by what sounded like a distant scream.  I did not know whether it was a dream or not; but I hurried on deck.  The sun had not risen, but as I looked about I saw something which took away my breath; which made me wonder if I were awake, or dreaming, or mad.

It was Bertha’s steamer within hailing distance!

Above the rail I saw the head and body of Mary Phillips, who was screaming through the trumpet.  I stood and gazed in petrified amazement.

I could not hear what Mary Phillips said.  Perhaps my senses were benumbed.  Perhaps the wind was carrying away her words.  That it was blowing from me toward her soon became too evident.  The steamer was receding from the Sparhawk.  The instant I became aware of this my powers of perception and reasoning returned to me with a burning flash.

Bertha was going away from me—­she was almost gone.

Snatching my trumpet, I leaned over the rail and shouted with all my might:  “Did you hear me say I loved her?  Did you tell her?”

Mary Phillips had put down her trumpet, but now she raised it again to her mouth, and I could see that she was going to make a great effort.  The distance between us had increased considerably since I came on deck, and she had to speak against the wind.

With all the concentrated intensity which high-strung nerves could give to a man who is trying to hear the one thing to him worth hearing in the world, I listened.  Had a wild beast fixed his claws and teeth into me at the moment I would not have withdrawn my attention.

I heard the voice of Mary Phillips, faint, far away.  I heard the words, “Yes, but—­” and the rest was lost.  She must have known from my aspect that her message did not reach me, for she tried again and again to make herself heard.

The wind continued to blow, and the steamer continued to float and float and float away.  A wind had come up in the night.  It had blown Bertha near me; perhaps it had blown her very near me.  She had not known it, and I had not known it.  Mary Phillips had not known it until it was too late, and now that wind had blown her past me and was blowing her away.  For a time there was a flutter of a handkerchief, but only one handkerchief, and then La Fidelite, with Bertha on board, was blown away until she disappeared, and I never saw her again.