Her treasure hunt that afternoon had been singularly unsuccessful. She had not found so much as a flint arrowhead or a copper penny.
“Big piece of nonsense!” she told herself. “And yet—”
A half hour later, having dragged on shoes, knickers, and sweater, she was digging once more on the camping ground, digging for gold. Such are the strange, unfathomable ways of youth.
She had stirred up their campfire and was digging with the aid of its light. As she labored her sturdy figure cast odd, fantastic shadows on the dark forest at her back.
At the same hour Jeanne returned to the wreck. She came with her gypsy friends on the _Ship of Joy_. For once in his life Bihari was in a great rush. His journey round the island had been completed. There was in the air some deep prophecy of storm. Being one of those who live their lives beneath the blue dome of heaven, he felt rather than saw this.
“They are here!” Jeanne cried in great joy as they neared the wreck of the old _Pilgrim_. “Florence and Greta are here!”
“But there is no light,” someone protested.
“They are dreaming in some corner of the ship, or perhaps they are asleep,” Jeanne insisted. “They _must_ be here, for—see! There is their boat. We have but one boat. They could not well be away.”
Climbing to the deck, the little French girl bade her gypsy friends a fond farewell, then from her favorite spot on the deck watched the lights of Bihari’s boat grow dim in the distance. Then she set about the task of finding her friends. This, as you know well enough, was to be a hard task. They were not there.
The explanation is simple enough. Having tried out the _Little Black Tramp_ and found it easy to row, Florence had chosen to go ashore in it and to leave her own boat tied up to the wreck. So here it was and here was the little French girl alone on the _Pilgrim_. It was night, and she had not forgotten Bihari’s warning: “There comes a great storm.”
On the camping ground, lighted by the campfire’s flickering glow, Florence dug steadily on. “Not that I expect to find anything,” she told herself. “I’m just wearing down my mental resistance to sleep. Pretty soon I’ll drop this old spade and creep beneath the blankets. I’ll—”
She broke short off. Strange sounds were reaching her ears; at least they were strange for this place. Music, the tones of a violin, came to her. Clear and distinct they were.