Could the life-boat possibly arrive in time? That was the question which each spectator asked dumbly, not daring to voice it in words. Nearer and ever nearer swept the waves. Where there had been yards of shingle there were only feet; soon it was a matter of inches. There was not a sign of any boat to be seen. A sea-crow below flapped its wings like an omen of death.
"Tom and Smith have gone to fetch ropes," breathed Miss Birks, and her voice broke the strain of almost intolerable silence.
"There's not time to wait for them."
"Can we do nothing?"
"Oh, is there no way to save him?"
Then Gerda stood up, with a sudden light shining in her clear eyes.
"Yes, yes!" she cried. "There's the old windlass! I'm going down to him by that!"
Years ago there had been a small find of china clay on the headland. It had been lowered in buckets over the side of the cliff to be taken away by boat, and the remains of the apparatus, a derelict, rickety affair, stood within a few yards of the place where the watchers were gathered. A rusty bucket was still attached to the frayed, weather-worn rope twisted round the roller. To descend by so frail a support was indeed a risk so great that only the most desperate necessity could justify it. A general murmur of horror arose from those assembled.
"It's the one chance—I'm going to try it," repeated Gerda. "You can lower me gently by the handle. I'm going to save him—or die with him."
She began rapidly to unwind the windlass so as to allow the bucket to reach the edge of the cliff. Realizing that she was in grim earnest, the others offered no further objection, and came eagerly to her assistance. She had seized the rope and was about to step into the bucket when a strong hand put her aside. The stranger in the brown jersey had silently joined himself to the group.