She saw the waters heaving, large and silent, in the misty calm; she felt the fresh breath of the morning flutter cool on her face.  Her strength returned; her mind cleared a little.  At the sight of the sea, her memory recalled the walk in the garden overnight, and the picture which her distempered fancy had painted on the black void.  In thought, she saw the picture again—­the murderer hurling the Spud of the plow into the air, and setting the life or death of the woman who had deserted him on the hazard of the falling point.  The infection of that terrible superstition seized on her mind as suddenly as the new day had burst on her view.  The premise of release which she saw in it from the horror of her own hesitation roused the last energies of her despair.  She resolved to end the struggle by setting her life or death on the hazard of a chance.

On what chance?

The sea showed it to her.  Dimly distinguishable through the mist, she saw a little fleet of coasting-vessels slowly drifting toward the house, all following the same direction with the favoring set of the tide.  In half an hour—­perhaps in less—­the fleet would have passed her window.  The hands of her watch pointed to four o’clock.  She seated herself close at the side of the window, with her back toward the quarter from which the vessels were drifting down on her—­with the poison placed on the window-sill and the watch on her lap.  For one half-hour to come she determined to wait there and count the vessels as they went by.  If in that time an even number passed her, the sign given should be a sign to live.  If the uneven number prevailed, the end should be Death.

With that final resolution, she rested her head against the window and waited for the ships to pass.

The first came, high, dark and near in the mist, gliding silently over the silent sea.  An interval—­and the second followed, with the third close after it.  Another interval, longer and longer drawn out—­and nothing passed.  She looked at her watch.  Twelve minutes, and three ships.  Three.

The fourth came, slower than the rest, larger than the rest, further off in the mist than the rest.  The interval followed; a long interval once more.  Then the next vessel passed, darkest and nearest of all.  Five.  The next uneven number—­

Five.

She looked at her watch again.  Nineteen minutes, and five ships.  Twenty minutes.  Twenty-one, two, three—­and no sixth vessel.  Twenty-four, and the sixth came by.  Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, and the next uneven number—­the fatal Seven—­glided into view.  Two minutes to the end of the half-hour.  And seven ships.

Twenty-nine, and nothing followed in the wake of the seventh ship.  The minute-hand of the watch moved on half-way to thirty, and still the white heaving sea was a misty blank.  Without moving her head from the window, she took the poison in one hand, and raised the watch in the other.  As the quick seconds counted each other out, her eyes, as quick as they, looked from the watch to the sea, from the sea to the watch—­looked for the last time at the sea—­and saw the EIGHTH ship.