Ah! that was it! Well done, Wilton. But it was hopeless, quite hopeless, after all. Linton rolled his head feebly. They had climbed another 1,000 feet, and they were mounting still.
No! What was this? There was a change. Something had happened. Linton was sensible of a strange eddying, a pause, a feebler flapping of the aeroplanes.
Merciful God! The boat had ceased to rise. Now she was sinking, sinking, with appalling speed, yet checked to some extent by the broad aeroplanes, just as a bird would be when, with extended wings, it floated down to earth.
He tried to frame some words; tried to touch Wilton with his hand; failed to do either. Wilton lay motionless, with bleeding lips.
Out of the blur of mental chaos, Linton Herrick found himself roughly dragged back to consciousness. Kneeling in the boat, he discovered that he was submerged in water to the waist; flecks of salt water smote him in the face; all around there was a welter of wild, tossing waves.
In his ears, to add to his distraction, there sounded a harsh and melancholy bell. It was tolling, tolling, close at hand.
The Bladud, water-logged, tossed feebly in the trough of the angry sea. Built on a theory that she could float for a considerable period, it nevertheless rushed in upon Linton's mind that in a few minutes she would sink. He struggled to his feet, grasping the rigging as he did so. Something arrested his attention. What was that silent log-like thing the waves were rolling yonder in the semi-darkness? It must be Wilton, poor Wilton, who had saved their lives—or tried to save them, only to lose his own. Wilton! Dead!
A voice hailed him. It came from Renshaw, his companion. He also was on his feet, swaying from side to side as the boat, settling deeper and deeper in the water, plunged and lurched beneath them.
"Look!" cried Renshaw, "the buoy! We must swim for it!"