The hurricane had now reached its climax. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. Upon this grateful animal she lavished that affection which was subtly repelled by its lawful object. You are my prisoner, murderer. Edgeworth Bess, who passed for Sheppard's wife, was secured.
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