With the Russian's wild death cry still echoing in her senses Emily awoke a half-hour later to a vivid consciousness. She found herself lying in the protecting shade of the boat sail tent which Lavelle had erected for her habitation near the eastern side of the hill on the day after the landing. The scene upon which her eyes had closed flashed again across her vision and she sat up with a shudder.  
The movement brought to her senses for the first time a realization of physical pain. Remembering the strength of spirit which had been given to her to stand upon fire she throttled the cry which sprang to her lips. Her suffering became precious to her even as the agony of travail is dear to a woman. Her eyes welled with hot tears.
 
Putting out a hand blindly she found the little canvas sandals. She picked them up and pressed them to her bosom. The charred heels and soles crumbled away at her touch. She kissed them with the impulse which would carry a warrior's lips to his colors. To her these pieces of canvas were the symbols of a faith which had sustained her in a trial which passed her understanding.
 
Looking downward at her feet, she found both of them bandaged. She had been dimly conscious of Lavelle doing this service for her. She recognized the bindings as pieces of the hem of her night robe with which she had bound his brow in the boat. A mysterious thrill went through her; her eyes overflowed.
 
The breeze lifted the edge of the tent and disclosed Lavelle to her view. She caught the canvas and held it back. He was just finishing the restepping of the signal mast. His back was toward her.
 
Straightening from his task to his full height and with one of his strong bare arms extended to the mast and the other hanging loosely at his side, he looked out over the sea to the southward. His tattered shirt and trousers still wet with sea water clung tightly to his lithe, powerful form. There was a challenge in the set of his head and in the grim line of his jaw. His attitude breathed of a man indomitable—one who, indeed, was master of his fate; the intrepid captain of his soul. His destiny would find him thus.
 
The woman in the tent watched this man in wondrous awe, nor could she know that his thoughts were alone of her at that moment—of a woman sanctified in his sight not alone by living fire, but also by the passion of a love unutterable. She saw the breeze toss the forelock of his dark brown hair. He started. She dropped the edge of the tent, realizing, without any amazement, that they two were alone in an empty, far-flung waste of the world. She laid her head down on her long coat which he had rolled into a pillow. She dared not speak.
 
During what seemed an interminable time, the woman in the tent heard Lavelle moving about outside, and, of a sudden, the singleness of his footfall brought Chang surging into her thoughts. A moment later Lavelle stood in the tent entrance, carrying food and drink. She sat up to behold in his face an expression which stabbed her with its pain.
 
"You are suffering, little woman," he said tenderly.
 
All she could do was shake her head that she was not. Discovering what it was she was holdin............