Heavily as the sea was rolling, they now began to pull through the immense waves, Harcourt turning his head at every instant to watch the boat, which now was scarcely half a mile ahead of them.
“She's empty!—there's no one in her!” said Peter, mournfully, as, steadying himself by the mast, he cast a look seaward.
“Row on,—let us get beside her,” said Harcourt.
“She's the yawl!—I know her now,” cried the man.
“And empty?”
“Washed out of her with a say, belike,” said Peter, resuming his oar, and tugging with all his strength.
A quarter of an hour's hard rowing brought them close to the dismasted boat, which, drifting broadside on the sea, seemed at every instant ready to capsize.
“There's something in the bottom,—in the stern-sheets!” screamed Peter. “It's himself! O blessed Virgin, it's himself!” And, with a bound, he sprang from his own boat into the other.
