"
"We have nothing to do with death," said Mr. Raleigh. "Our foe is simply
time. You dance, then?"
"Oh, yes. I dance well,--like those white fluttering butterflies,--as if
I were _au gre du vent_." "That would not be dancing well."
"It would not be dancing well to _be_ at the will of the wind, but it is
perfection to appear so."
"The dance needs the expression of the dancer's will. It is breathing
sculpture. It is mimic life beyond all other arts."
"Then well I love to dance. And I do dance well. Wait,--you shall see."
He detained her.
"Be still, little maid!" he said, and again drew her beside him, though
she still continued standing.
At this moment the captain approached.
"What cheer?" asked Mr. Raleigh.
"No cheer," he answered, gloomily, dinting his finger-nails into his
palm. "The planks forward are already hot to the hand. I tremble at
every creak of cordage, lest the deck crash in and bury us all."
"You have made the Sandy Hook light?"
"Yes; too late to run her ashore."
"You cannot try that at the Highlands?"
"Certain death."
"The wind scarcely"----
"Veered a point I am carrying all sail. But if this tooth of fire gnaws
below, you will soon see the masts go by the board.
Pages:
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148