moment of awful suspense followed; the next instant a tremendous squall of wind caught the mainmast and brought it crashing to the deck, and, the same moment, a huge wave broke over the stern and tore off the rudder:—with a groan as if she felt her coming doom, the little schooner fell back to her perilous position, and in another minute she struck the reef. The shock threw Miss Lennox off her feet, and nearly precipitated her father out of his berth.
“What has happened?” exclaimed the sick man with sudden energy. “Has the schooner struck a rock?”
“It must be morning,” said Helen. “I’ll try to get on deck, and see what has happened.”
“Don’t go farther than the top of the ladder, Helen,” said Mr. Lennox; “you might get hurt on deck.”
Having reached the top of the ladder, Helen looked about her through the dim morning light. The rain had ceased, but the wind still blew furiously, and the waves were tremendous. The captain and crew were grouped together gazing towards the shore, which lay about smile distant. The cultivated lands and scattered farm-houses could be plainly seen in the growing light, and at the other side of the reef a glimpse could be caught of the village, mocking the storm-tost voyagers with its aspect of peace and safety. Every now and then the schooner struck the rocks with a force which threatened each moment to dash her to pieces, and which almost compelled Helen to let go her hold of the rigging to which she clung.
“I guess we had best take the boat and try for the land,” said the mate, a surly, disagreeable-looking man.
“Better wait a bit,” said the skipper, who was a good-looking young fellow, with light hair and blue eyes,—bright, keen, and fearless as those of an eagle, “the wind may fall as the sun strengthens.”
“I guess the schooner will be in pieces before that. Hark how she’s knocking her brains out; she can’t hold together ten minutes longer.” “Shell last an hour or more yet,” said the skipper, “she’s getting jammed in among the rocks, and then she’ll be steady. By that time, too, the people will be about on the shore, and may give us some help.”
But a panic had seized the men, and they insisted on getting out the boat and leaving the schooner at once.
“Well,” said the skipper, “I guess the boat we’ve got won’t carry us all through such a sea as the one between us and the shore.”
“She can carry four well enough, can’t she?” said the mate.
“And the passengers?” said the skipper.
“Well, the passengers would be just two too many,” said the mate coolly. “They can’t come.”
“They must for all that, if we go,” said the skipper.
As he spoke his eye caught the figure of the young girl standing at the top of the ladder. Her long dark hair, loosened by the wind, was blown back from her face, which was as pale as death, but calm and quiet, and the intense light of her dark eye shone steadily as a star.
“There’s the girl,” continued the skipper, “I’ll tell her to bring up her father.”
A murmur of dissatisfaction ran through the men.
“It ain’t reasonable to expect us to risk our lives for a strange gal and an old man that haven’t got half a day’s life in him,” said one.
“I guess it would be more than risking them, said the mate, “it would be clear throwing them away. Four men’s full as many as the skiff can carry.”
The skipper’s eyes flashed fire.
“Look at her yonder,” he cried, “how brave and quiet she stands. If you had the smallest spark of manhood in you, you’d give your lives ten times over before you’d think of leaving her to the mercy of the waves.”
Following the skipper’s glance, the sailors turned their eyes on Helen, and perhaps her beauty, her helplessness, and her aspect of patient firmness moved them to some touch of pity, for they seemed to hesitate. They had been used to see women in moments of peril give way to tears, cries, and lamentations, and this young girl’s calm, unshrinking attitude, her silence and stillness, inspired them with something like awe as well as surprise. They had all admired her bright young beauty when she first came on board, and some of them had noticed her watchful tender care of her father, and the pleasant readiness with which she accommodated herself to the inconveniences of her situation, and bore with its privations; and now, selfish and unfeeling as they were, their hearts smote them as they looked at her.
“Well, let the gal come,” said one; “but where’s the use of bringing the father? Her weight isn’t much; but he’s a big man, and as helpless as a log. Besides, he’s dying: any fool can see that; and it’s as well for him to die where he is, and a considerable deal safer for us.”
“And do you think she’d save herself, and leave her father behind?” said the young skipper, scornfully. “I tell you, she’d die fifty times over first.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the mate, “life’s sweet to us all; and I for one don’t want to give it up for any old man or young gal in creation.”
“Yes, life’s sweet,” said the brave young skipper, “and it’s as sweet to me as to any of you, I guess; but it ain’t worth the price you want to buy it at. We must all die some time or other, and to my mind, a brave death’s better than a cowardly life, any day in the year.”
“Well, we’ve spoke our minds,” said the mate; “to bring the gal’s risk enough, and too much; and I for one will never consent to any more.”
“It’s right enough,” said another of the sailors; “we’ve wives and children depending on us, and we must think of them before strangers.”
“It’s my belief that those who show so little pity for their other fellow-creatures ain’t likely to care much for their wives and children, except where it serves themselves,” said the skipper, trying to keep down his rising passion.
“Enough said, Captain Bennett,” said the surly mate, “we all know you can talk better than us,
