"Come to my 'den' on deck.

We shall be quite solitary there." He led the way, and Olaf Gueldmar followed him in silence.
It was raining fiercely, and the waves, green towers of strength, broke every now and then over the sides of the yacht with a hissing shower of salt white spray.

The thunder rolled along the sky in angry reverberating echoes,--frequent flashes of lightning leaped out like swords drawn from dark scabbards,--yet towards the south the sky was clearing, and arrowy beams of pale gold fell from the hidden sun, with a soothing and soft lustre on the breast of the troubled water.
Gueldmar looked about him, and heaved a deep sigh of refreshment.

His eyes rested lovingly on the tumbling billows,--he bared his white head to the wind and rain.
"This is the life, the blood, the heart of a man!" he said, while a sort of fierce delight shone in his keen eyes.

"To battle with the tempest,--to laugh at the wrath of waters,--to set one's face against the wild wind,--to sport with the elements as though they were children or serfs,--this is the joy of manhood! A joy," he added slowly, "that few so-called men of to-day can ever feel." Errington smiled gravely.