While he thus vented his rage, the door again opened, and Quilt Arnold rushed into the room, bleeding, and half-dressed. But they were too late. She tugged at my coat and said, ‘I know of the blue-eyed maid. Here again instinct guided her. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. “My God!” he said at last, with tremendous feeling, and then again, “My God!” Now that this thing was said her mind was clear and calm. She yielded it without protest, as though unconsciously. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. She laughed a little contemptuously.
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