"Aye, lad! Is it you? 'Tis terrible distress we are in. McClure's bairn is oot on the fell water."
He pointed to the foam-streaked lake.
"Where are they?" shouted Ned.
Margaret heard his voice.
"Ned, Ned!" she cried, running to him. "Mary's out on the lake with Sykes and Foyle. There they are."
Straining his eyes he followed her hand. The boat was far out, visible only in fleeting glimpses when riding the crest of a wave. They were running before the wind, bearing down on the Storm Rock. Should the boat strike, it would be crushed like an egg-shell. They were now so close no escape was possible. It was but a matter of moments.
As the terrible truth came home to Ned, he stood motionless, impotent, looking with blanching face on the impending tragedy. A great sob rolled up his breast. He wanted to scream a warning over the chaos of wind and flood. Suddenly it seemed to him but a little way to Mary after all. Only the threatening chasm of the malignant waters. Should it keep them apart? He smiled that strange, innocent smile that came out somewhere from the indomitable depths of him. He would take up the gauge of the malign thing grinning at him out there in the gloom. He would swim to the rock. Running far up the shore he divested himself of boots, coat and vest and threw himself on the rollers.
Charley Grant had followed him, thinking he had espied some means of rescue. As he saw him plunge into the lake he shouted wildly:
"Come back, mon! Ye're daft to reesk it. Ye'll perish, lad."
But Ned could not hear him.