She pulled towards the creek. Already the air was clear; but as she glanced again her eye missed something familiar. And then it struck her that the old schooner had gone. At that instant, as if in confirmation, a shattered board bumped against the boat's side. She looked, and noticed that far and near the water was strewn with such fragments.
She was pausing for a second to consider, when she caught sight of a black object lying on the mud beside the shore, and with a short cry fell to rowing with all her strength. She guided the boat as nearly up to it as the mud allowed, and then, catching up her skirts, jumped into the ooze and waded.
It was Mr. Fogo; but whether dead or alive she could not say. Down on the mud she knelt, and, turning him gently over, looked into his face. It was streaked with slime, and powdered with a yellowish flake, as of sand. His locks were singed most pitifully. She started up, took him by the shoulders, and tried to drag him up to the firmer shingle.
Mr. Fogo opened his eyes and shut them again, feebly.
"Not dead! Oh! thank Heaven you are not dead."
With a sob she dropped again beside him, and brushed the flaked powder from his eye-lashes.
He opened his eyes again.
"Would you mind speaking up? I—I think I am a little deaf."
"I thought you were dead," she cried, in a louder tone.
"No-o, I am not dead. Oh! no; decidedly I am not dead. It—it was the Tea, I fancy."