“Quite so; come along, there 's not a moment to lose.”
“Oh, Mr. Cashel, do not leave me!” cried Lady Kilgoff, as the boat was lifted from its place, and swung by the halyards from side to side.
“You cannot surely resist that appeal, sir,” said Lord Kilgoff, his withered and worn features flushed with a pang of sudden anger.
“I must see to your safety, my Lord, or none else is likely to do it,” said Cashel, sternly; and as he spoke he lifted the old man and placed him in the boat. “Stay where you are, Sickleton,” cried he to the lieutenant; “I 'll cut her adrift. So there! my boys, all together—larboard now.” And as the vessel heaved over to the surge, the boat was launched. A shrill cry of terror was heard above the raging storm; for Cashel, in his eagerness to secure the others' safety, had perilled his own, and now the boiling surf rushed between the yacht and the boat, defying every effort to approach.
“Never fear for me,” said Roland, boldly; “the distance is short, and I 've swum in many a heavier surf.” And he swung himself, as he spoke, by a loose stay into the sea. Nobly breasting the mad waves, he was seen at intervals, now borne on the white-crested billows, now deep down in the dark trough of waters. His Indian teaching had taught him, too, to dive at times through the coming surf, and thus escape its force, and so did he emerge from the great mass of waters that seemed almost to have buried him. Bending to the oars, the boat's crew pulled manfully through the tide, and at last gaining a little bay, floated into calm water, just as Cashel had got a footing on a reef of rock, a short distance from land.
“Safe!” cried he, as he drew his wearied limbs up the little craggy eminence, from which he could see the yacht still storm-lashed and heaving, and follow with his eyes the boat, as with bounding speed she made for shore.
No sooner had Sickleton safely landed his freight than he put out again to rescue those in the yacht, while Cashel, bruised, bleeding, and torn, made his way slowly to the little hut where Lord and Lady Kilgoff had taken shelter.
His entrance was little noticed. The cabin was full of country people and fishermen,—some earnestly proffering advice and counsel, others as eagerly questioning all about the recent calamity. In a great straw chair, beside the fire, sat Lord Kilgoff, his head resting on a country-woman's shoulder, while another bathed his temples to restore animation.
“Where is she?” said Cashel, passionately; and the tone and look of the speaker turned attention towards him.
“'T is her husband,” whispered the woman of the house, courtesying respectfully to the youth, who, in all the torn disorder of his dress, looked the gentleman; and with that she drew him into an inner room, where upon a low settle lay the pale and scarce breathing form of Lady Kilgoff.