She nodded.
Another minute passed. There was no slackening in the onslaught. Once the tiller was almost wrenched from Sam's hand by the impact of a sea that caught the launch a quartering blow. It was nearly disaster, but he managed to swing the stern to the wind again. Yet the blow had left its mark. There was water now above the flooring.
As it swirled about Rosalind's feet she reached forward to where a tin bucket lay. The boatman drew her back.
"No use!" he roared. "You can't bail!"
She accepted his decision without question, and again hid her face against his breast.
"Get the life-preserver!"
She heard the command but dimly, though it was shouted directly into her ear.
Rosalind shook her head. Of what use was a thing of cork and canvas out there in the white fury?
"Get it!"
Again she shook her head. It was not merely the uselessness of the thing that caused her stubborn refusal. It was the fact—and she was calmly conscious of it, too—that there was only one life-preserver in the boat.