Her long hair swept across his face, her warm breath was on his cheek, her dress exposed her round, smooth shoulder.

He, intoxicated, conquered, had half-turned back, when suddenly the rich crimson died away from her lips, leaving them an ashen grey colour.

Her eyes closed in agony; loosing her hold of him, she staggered to her feet, pressed her hands upon her bosom, and uttered a sharp cry of pain.
The fever which had been on her two days, and which, by a strong exercise of will, she had struggled against--encouraged by the violent excitement of the occasion--had attacked her at this supreme moment.
Deathly pale and sick, she reeled to the side of the cabin.

There was another shot, and a violent clashing of arms; and Frere, leaving the miserable woman to her fate, leapt out on to the deck..