That dingy trader, the _Unser Fritz_, ostensibly carrying wool and guano from the Argentine to Hamburg, was now swinging west at less than half speed over the long rollers which alone bore testimony to the recent gale.

Already a deep tint of crimson haze over the western horizon was eloquent, in nature's speech, of land ahead.

At her present pace, the _Unser Fritz_ would enter the harbor at Pernambuco on the following morning.
Iris, her troubled face resting on her hands, her elbows propped on the rails of the poop on the port side, looked at Philip with an intense sadness that was seemingly lost on him.

His doubts concerning the cigar had grown into a certainty.

He cast it into the sea.
"I really mean what I say," she continued in a low voice that vibrated with emotion, for her obvious distress was enhanced by his evident belief that she was jesting.