“Was Mr. Seymour saved?” she whispered, her face grey with dread.

“I dare say, Miss,” answered the stewardess evasively.  “But there is no gentleman of that name aboard this ship.”

At that moment the doctor came in, and him, too, she plied with questions.  But having learned the story of Robert’s self-sacrifice from Mr. Thompson and the others, he would give her no answer, for he guessed how matters had stood between them, and feared the effects of the shock.  All he could say was that he hoped Mr. Seymour had escaped in some other boat.

It was not until the third morning that Benita was allowed to learn the truth, which indeed it was impossible to conceal any longer.  Mr. Thompson came to her cabin and told her everything, while she listened silently, horrified, amazed.

“Miss Clifford,” he said, “I think it was one of the bravest things that a man ever did.  On the ship I always thought him rather a head-in-air kind of swell, but he was a splendid fellow, and I pray God that he has lived, as the lady and child for whom he offered himself up have done, for they are both well again.”

“Yes,” she repeated after him mechanically, “splendid fellow indeed, and,” she added, with a strange flash of conviction, “I believe that he is still alive.  If he were dead I should know it.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” said Mr. Thompson, who believed the exact contrary.

“Listen,” she went on.  “I will tell you something.  When that dreadful accident occurred Mr. Seymour had just asked me to marry him, and I was going to answer that I would—­because I love him.  I believe that I shall still give him that answer.”

Mr. Thompson replied again that he hoped so, which, being as honest and tender-hearted as he was brave and capable, he did most earnestly; but in his heart he reflected that her answer would not be given this side of the grave.  Then, as he had been deputed to do, he handed her the note which had been found in the bosom of her dress, and, able to bear no more of this painful scene, hurried from the cabin.  She read it greedily twice, and pressed it to her lips, murmuring: 

“Yes, I will think kindly of you, Robert Seymour, kindly as woman can of man, and now or afterwards you shall have your answer, if you still wish for it.  Whenever you come or wherever I go, it shall be ready for you.”

That afternoon, when she was more composed, Mrs. Jeffreys came to see Benita, bringing her baby with her.  The poor woman was still pale and shaken, but the child had taken no hurt at all from its immersion in that warm water.

“What can you think of me?” she said, falling on her knees by Benita.  “But oh!  I did not know what I was doing.  It was terror and my child,” and she kissed the sleeping infant passionately.  “Also I did not understand at the time—­I was too dazed.  And—­that hero—­he gave his life for me when the others wished to beat me off with oars.  Yes, his blood is upon my hands—­he who died that I and my child might live.”