"No, dear," he whispered eagerly. "Don't think that for a moment. We have
passed through too much to dream of such an ending now. There will be
ships--there must be. Look! what is that, yonder against the sky-line? It
is, sweet-heart; it is the smoke of a steamer."
CHAPTER XXIII
AN ESCAPE FROM THE RAFT
They watched with sinking hearts, West rising to his knees, and shading
his eyes with his hand, as that thin spiral of smoke crept along the
horizon, and finally disappeared into the north. The raft rode so low in
the water that no glimpse of the distant steamer could be perceived, and,
when the last faint vestige of smoke vanished, neither said a word, but
sat there silent, with clasped hands. The bitterness of disappointment
wore away slowly, and as the uneventful hours left them in the same
helpless condition, they fell again into fitful conversation, merely to
thus bolster up courage, and lead their minds to other thoughts. It was
maddening to sit there motionless and stare off across the desolate
water, seeing nothing but those white-crested surges sweeping constantly
toward them, and to feel the continuous leap and drop of the frail raft,
which alone kept them afloat.
The hours went by monotonously, with scarcely an occurrence to break the
dreariness or bring a ray of hope. The clouds obscured the sky, yet
occasionally through some narrow rift, came a glimpse of the sun, as it
rose to the zenith, and then began sinking into the west.
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