The broad gray dawn flowed in on her, over the
quiet eastern sea.
She saw the waters heaving, large and silent, in the misty calm; she
felt the fresh breath of the morning flutter cool on her face. Her
strength returned; her mind cleared a little. At the sight of the sea,
her memory recalled the walk in the garden overnight, and the picture
which her distempered fancy had painted on the black void. In thought,
she saw the picture again--the murderer hurling the Spud of the
plow into the air, and setting the life or death of the woman who had
deserted him on the hazard of the falling point. The infection of that
terrible superstition seized on her mind as suddenly as the new day had
burst on her view. The premise of release which she saw in it from the
horror of her own hesitation roused the last energies of her despair.
She resolved to end the struggle by setting her life or death on the
hazard of a chance.
On what chance?
The sea showed it to her. Dimly distinguishable through the mist, she
saw a little fleet of coasting-vessels slowly drifting toward the house,
all following the same direction with the favoring set of the tide. In
half an hour--perhaps in less--the fleet would have passed her window.
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