Lifting her up, Calvert placed her on the seat, while he supported her with one arm, and with the other hand grasped the tiller.
“Is there danger?” whispered she faintly.
“No, dearest, none. I’ll bale out the water when the wind lulls a little. Sit close up here, and all will be well.”
The boat, however, deeply laden, no longer rose over the waves, but dipped her bow and took in more water at every plunge.
“Tell me this hand is mine, my own dearest Florence—mine for ever, and see how it will nerve my arm. I am powerless if I am hopeless. Tell me that I have something to live for, and I live.”
“Oh, Harry, is it when my heart is dying with fear that you ask me this? Is it generous—is it fair? There! the sail is gone! the ropes are torn across.”
“It is only the jib, darling, and we shall be better without it. Speak, Florence! say it is my own wife I am saving—not the bride of that man, who, if he were here, would be at your feet in craven terror this instant.”
“There goes the mast!”
At the word the spar snapped close to the thwart and fell over the side, carrying the sail with it. The boat now lay with one gunwale completely under water, helpless and water-logged. A wild shriek burst from the girl, who thought all was lost.
“Courage, dearest—courage! she’ll float still. Hold close to me and fear nothing. It is not Loyd’s arm that you have to trust to, but that of one who never knew terror!”