THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
startled her from a doze. She hastily put on her kimono and went on deck. Suez lay off to starboard. The harbor lights were still shining, though they grew perceptibly dimmer and dimmer as the yellow pallor of dawn changed swiftly into bright gold. A string of coal-lighters were swinging around to port, and hundreds of Arabs swarmed over the dull black heaps of coal. There was in the air the promise of a very hot day.
The Ajax had dropped her anchor just outside the basin of Port Ibrahim. In the basin itself was a forest of masts and funnels; and from out the spaces between these hulls came dozens of small boats laden with fruit. Ruth strained her eyes in vain to discover a familiar head. What with the pall of coal-dust, the sharpening yellow haze, and the many heads dully red from the stains of henna, William's aureola would not have shone with any degree of conspicuity.
All hope died within her. If he was not dead he had at least passed out of her life for many months, if not forever. She bent her forehead to the teak rail, cool with dew. If she did not weep it was because her eyes were too dry for tears.
One of her hands lay inertly on the rail. Down upon this hand suddenly fell another, big and warm and firm. It was dirty, variously scratched, and streaked with blood. She looked up swiftly. The object of her fascinated gaze was literally in tatters. His collar was gone, likewise his hat. There was a hideous bump over the left ear, and all the way down the side of the head and neck
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