" There was a momentary and terrible silence, broken only by a few feeble groans. Then there was also the horse. There isn’t. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. The ring's yours, and you're mine. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. May I do so to-day?” “It’s your gate,” she said, amiably; “you got it first.
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