Twenty
minutes. Twenty-one, two, three--and no sixth vessel. Twenty-four, and
the sixth came by. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight,
and the next uneven number--the fatal Seven--glided into view. Two
minutes to the end of the half-hour. And seven ships.
Twenty-nine, and nothing followed in the wake of the seventh ship. The
minute-hand of the watch moved on half-way to thirty, and still the
white heaving sea was a misty blank. Without moving her head from the
window, she took the poison in one hand, and raised the watch in the
other. As the quick seconds counted each other out, her eyes, as
quick as they, looked from the watch to the sea, from the sea to the
watch--looked for the last time at the sea--and saw the EIGHTH ship.
She never moved, she never spoke. The death of thought, the death of
feeling, seemed to have come to her already. She put back the poison
mechanically on the ledge of the window and watched, as in a dream, the
ship gliding smoothly on its silent way--gliding till it melted dimly
into shadow--gliding till it was lost in the mist.
The strain on her mind relaxed when the Messenger of Life had passed
from her sight.
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