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There came two or three days of
terrible suspense for Helen, relieved only by telegrams from
Martine as he passed from point to point. The poor girl struggled
as a swimmer breasts pitiless waves intervening between him and
the shore. She scarcely allowed herself an idle moment; but her
effort was feverish and in a measure the result of excitement. The
papers were searched for any scrap of intelligence, and the daily
mail waited for until the hours and minutes were counted before
its arrival.
One morning her father placed Nichol's letter in her hands. They
so trembled in the immense hope, the overwhelming emotion which
swept over her at sight of the familiar handwriting, that at first
she could not open it. When at last she read the prophetic
message, she almost blotted out the writing with her tears,
moaning, "He's dead, he's dead!" In her morbid, overwrought
condition, the foreboding that had been in the mind of the writer
was conveyed to hers; and she practically gave up hope for
anything better than the discovery and return of his remains.


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