The foam bubbles burst or floated away in little snowy heaps; the sea resumed its level, and, save for the floating debris, became as it had been for thousands of years before the lost Trondhjem rushed downward to its depths.
Now, for the first time, knowing the immediate peril past, Morris looked at the face of his companion.

It was a fine face, and beautiful in its way.

Dark eyes, very large and perfect, whereof the pupils seemed to expand and contract in answer to every impulse of the thoughts within.
Above the eyes long curving lashes and delicately pencilled, arched eyebrows, and above them again a forehead low and broad.

The chin rounded; the lips full, rich, and sensitive; the complexion of a clear and beautiful pallor; the ears tiny; the hands delicate; the figure slim, of medium height, and alive with grace; the general effect most uncommon, and, without being lovely, breathing a curious power and personality.
Such was the woman whom he had saved from death.
"Oh, how splendid!" she said in her deep voice, and clasping her hands.
"What a death! For ship or man, what a death! And after it the great calm sea, taking and ready to take for ever." "Thank Heaven that it did not take you," answered Morris wrathfully.
"Why ?" she answered.
"Because you are still alive, who by now would have been dead." "It seems that it was not fated this time," she answered, adding: "The next it may be different." "Yes," he said reflectively; "the next it may be different, Miss Fregelius." She started.

"How do you know my name ?" she asked.
"From your father's lips.