"We've struck on a rock," Mrs. Orban heard some one say. "There isn't a minute to lose."
"Man the boats!" called a strident voice, and there was a running of ropes over pulleys, a creaking and a splashing not far away.
"Here you are, ma'am," a seaman said, taking her by the arm.
"Oh, the children!" said Mrs. Orban, holding back.
"We're here, mother," said Nesta's voice at her elbow.
"We'll see to them, ma'am," said the seaman; "you and the little one first."
He was almost rough in his kindness; and Mrs. Orban found herself swinging down into the boat below before she had time to make any protestations.
One after another, through pitch darkness into the only chance for safety, people were sent down. It was impossible to know who came—nothing could be seen or heard. The seamen above could not stop to pick and choose, but whoever they could lay hands on went.
Then came a hoarse cry—the boat was becoming overcrowded, the crew pushed off, and away they went with a bound at every stroke of the oars. To Mrs. Orban it was a hideous nightmare of awful anxiety. She could not tell whether all her children and her sister were with her or not. Her one ray of hope was that as they had apparently been all standing close together, the others must have been put in after her. But people had rushed so the moment they knew the boats were lowered, there was an awful possibility the children had been swept aside. They were certainly not near her, for she called their names and Dorothy's again and again, and there was no answer.
The men had not been rowing for seven minutes when there was a sudden awful sound behind them, and the boat plunged and rocked as if she were a living thing gone mad with terror.