“Now,” she said, “we can understand each other at last—­our minds are rational; and whether in accord or conflict they are at least in contact; and mine isn’t clashing with something disordered and foreign which it can’t interpret, can’t approach.”

He said, not turning toward her:  “You are kind to put it that way....  I think self-control has returned—­will-power—­all that....  I won’t-betray you—­Miss Erith.”

“You never would, Mr. McKay.  But I—­I’ve been in terror of what has been masquerading as you.”

“I know....  But whatever you think of such a—­a man—­I’ll do my bit, now.  I’ll carry on—­until the end.”

“I will too!  I promise you.”

He turned his head at that and a mirthless laugh touched his wet eyes and drawn visage: 

“As though you had to promise anybody that you’d stick!  You!  You beautiful, magnificent young thing—­you superb kid—­”

Her surprise and the swift blaze of colour in her face silenced him.

After a moment, the painful red still staining his face, he muttered something about dressing.

He watched her turn and enter her room; saw that she had closed her door-something she had not dared do heretofore; then he went into his own room and threw himself down on the bunk, shaking in every nerve.

For a long while, preoccupied with the obsession for self-destruction, he lay there face downward, exhausted, trying to fight off the swimming sense of horror that was creeping over him again.....  Little by little it mounted like a tide from hell....  He struggled to his feet with the unuttered cry of a dreamer tearing his throat.  An odd sense of fear seized him and he dressed and adjusted his clumsy life-suit.  For the ship was in the danger zone, now, and orders had been given, and dawn was not far off.  Perhaps it was already day! he could not tell in his dim cabin.

And after he was completely accoutred for the hazard of the Hun-cursed seas he turned and looked down at his bunk with the odd idea that his body still lay there—­that it was a thing apart from himself—­something inert, unyielding, corpse-like, sprawling there in a stupor—­something visible, tangible, taking actual proportion and shape there under his very eyes.

He turned his back with a shudder and went on deck.  To his surprise the blue lights were extinguished, and corridor and saloon were all rosy with early sunlight.

Blue sky, blue sea, silver spindrift flying and clouds of silvery gulls—­a glimmer of Heaven from the depths of the pit—­a glimpse of life through a crack in the casket—­and land close on the starboard bow!  Sheer cliffs, with the bonny green grass atop all furrowed by the wind—­and the yellow-flowered broom and the shimmering whinns blowing.

“Why, it’s Scotland,” he said aloud, “it’s Glenark Cliffs and the Head of Strathlone—­my people’s fine place in the Old World—­where we took root—­and—­O my God!  Yankee that I am, it looks like home!”