“Child!  What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I couldn’t wait any longer,” she shouted back.  “You’ve been out since daylight.  You must be wet through.”

He nodded.  “I lay awake all night listening.  So did Trevor.  He’s beginning to worry already.”

“Already?  If the breakwater stands this—­”

“The storm hasn’t half started!  Come!  We’ll watch it together.”  He took her hand, and they lunged into the gale, battling their way back to his point of vantage.  He paused at length, and with his arm about her pointed to the milk-white chaos which marked Trevor’s handiwork.  The rain pelted against their faces and streamed from their slickers.

The breakwater lay like a reef, and over it the sea was pounding in mighty wrath.  High into the air the waters rose, only to disappear upon the bosom of the gale.  They engulfed the structure bodily, they raced along it with thunderous detonations, bursting in a lather of rage.  Out beyond, the billows appeared to be sheared flat by the force of the wind, yet that ceaseless upheaval of spume showed that the ocean was in furious tumult.  For moments at a time the whole scene was blotted out by the scud, then the curtain would tear asunder and the wild scene would leap up again before their eyes.

Eliza screamed a question at her companion, but he did not seem to hear; his eyes roved back and forth along that lace-white ridge of rock on the weakness of which depended his salvation.  She had never seen him so fierce, so hawklike, so impassive.  The gusts shook him, his garments slatted viciously, every rag beneath his outer covering was sodden, yet he continued to face the tempest as indifferently as he had faced it since the dawn.  The girl thrilled at thought of the issue these mighty forces were fighting out before her eyes, and of what it meant to the man beside her.  His interests became hers; she shared his painful excitement.  Her warm flesh chilled as the moisture embraced her limbs; but her heart was light, for O’Neil’s strong arm encircled her, and her body lay against his.

After a long time he spoke.  “See!  It’s coming up!” he said.

She felt no increase in the wind, but she noted that particles of sand and tiny pebbles from the beach were flying with the salt raindrops.  Her muscles began to tremble from the constant effort at resistance, and she was relieved when Murray looked about for a place of refuge.  She pointed to a pile of bridge timbers, but he shook his head.

“They’ll go flying if this keeps up.”  He dragged her into the shelter of a little knoll.  Here the blasts struck them with diminished force, the roaring in their ears grew less, and the labor of breathing was easier.

Rousing himself from his thoughts, the man said, gently: 

“Poor kid!  You must be cold.”

“I’m freezing.  But—­please don’t send me back.”  The face that met his was supplicating; the eyes were bluer than a spring day.  He patted her dripping shoulder.