The scene of confusion may be better imagined than described. Questions in frightened voices filled the air against this background of suppressed weeping. Briefly⁠—Joan’s silk tent had been torn, and the girl was in a state bordering upon hysterics. Somewhat reassured by our noisy presence, however⁠—for she was plucky at heart⁠—she pulled herself together and tried to explain what had happened; and her broken words, told there on the edge of night and morning upon this wild island ridge, were oddly thrilling and distressingly convincing.

“Something touched me and I woke,” she said simply, but in a voice still hushed and broken with the terror of it, “something pushing against the tent; I felt it through the canvas. There was the same sniffing and scratching as before, and I felt the tent give a little as when wind shakes it. I heard breathing⁠—very loud, very heavy breathing⁠—and then came a sudden great tearing blow, and the canvas ripped open close to my face.”