A tomb, she felt, for something that once had been brave, fine, and beautiful, but which now was dead.

She had but one desire, to escape from the place, to put it away from her forever, to remember it, not as she now found it, but as first she had remembered it, and as now she must always remember It.

She turned softly on tiptoe as one who has intruded on a shrine.
But before she could escape there came from the sea a sudden gust of wind that caught her by the skirts and drew her back, that set the branches tossing and swept the dead leaves racing about her ankles.

And at the same instant from just above her head there beat upon the air a violent, joyous tattoo--a sound that was neither of the sea nor of the woods, a creaking, swiftly repeated sound, like the flutter of caged wings.
Helen turned in alarm and raised her eyes--and beheld the sailorman.
Tossing his arms in a delirious welcome, waltzing in a frenzy of joy, calling her back to him with wild beckonings, she saw him smiling down at her with the same radiant, beseeching, worshipping smile.

In Helen's ears Latimer's commands to the sailorman rang as clearly as though Latimer stood before her and had just spoken.