Suddenly he sat up, with every sense alert, and grabbed his revolver.  Something impelled him to look towards the spot, a few feet away, where the skeleton was hidden.  It was the rustling of a bird among the trees that had caught his ear.

He thought of the white framework of a once powerful man, lying there among the bushes, abandoned, forgotten, horrific.  Then he smothered a cry of surprise.

“By Jove!” he muttered.  “There is no ‘X’ and dot.  That sign is meant for a skull and cross-bones.  It lies exactly on the part of the island where we saw that queer-looking bald patch today.  First thing tomorrow, before the girl awakes, I must examine that place.”

He resolutely stretched himself on his share of the spread-out coats, now thoroughly dried by sun and fire.  In a minute he was sound asleep.

CHAPTER V

IRIS TO THE RESCUE

“Before mine eyes in opposition sits
Grim death.”
—­Milton.

He awoke to find the sun high in the heavens.  Iris was preparing breakfast; a fine fire was crackling cheerfully, and the presiding goddess had so altered her appearance that the sailor surveyed her with astonishment.

He noiselessly assumed a sitting posture, tucked his feet beneath him, and blinked.  The girl’s face was not visible from where he sat, and for a few seconds he thought he must surely be dreaming.  She was attired in a neat navy-blue dress and smart blouse.  Her white canvas shoes were replaced by strong leather boots.  She was quite spick and span, this island Hebe.

So soundly had he slept that his senses returned but slowly.  At last he guessed what had happened.  She had risen with the dawn, and, conquering her natural feeling of repulsion, selected from the store he accumulated yesterday some more suitable garments than those in which she escaped from the wreck.

He quietly took stock of his own tattered condition, and passed a reflective hand over the stubble on his chin.  In a few days his face would resemble a scrubbing-brush.  In that mournful moment he would have exchanged even his pipe and tobacco-box—­worth untold gold—­for shaving tackle.  Who can say why his thoughts took such trend?  Twenty-four hours can effect great changes in the human mind if controlling influences are active.

Then came a sharp revulsion of feeling.  His name was Robert—­a menial.  He reached for his boots, and Iris heard him.

“Good morning,” she cried, smiling sweetly.  “I thought you would never awake.  I suppose you were very, very tired.  You were lying so still that I ventured to peep at you a long time ago.”

“Thus might Titania peep at an ogre,” he said.

“You didn’t look a bit like an ogre.  You never do.  You only try to talk like one—­sometimes.”

“I claim a truce until after breakfast.  If my rough compliment offends you, let me depend upon a more gentle tongue than my own—­