“Thank God!” cried the man fervently, and sinking to his knees he raised his hands aloft toward the author of joy and sorrow.
A moment later he sprang to his feet.
“Home! Nadara. Home!” he cried. “Can’t you realize it? I am going home. I am saved! Oh, Nadara, child, can’t you realize what it means to me? Home! Home! Home!”
He had been looking toward the yacht as he spoke, but now he turned toward the girl. She was crouching upon the ground, her face in her hands, her slender figure shaken by convulsive tears.
He came toward her and, kneeling, laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“Nadara!” he said gently. “Why do you cry, child? What is the matter?” But she only shook her head, moaning.
He raised her to her feet, and as he supported her his arm circled her shoulders.
“Tell me, Nadara, why you are unhappy?” he urged.
But still she could not speak for sobbing, and only buried her face upon his breast.
He was holding her very close now, and with the pressure of her body against his a fire that, unknown, had been smoldering in his heart for months burst into sudden flame, and in the heat of it there were consumed the mists that had been be-
