“Oh!” said Miss Joe, “that ship! that ship! It is the very ship I spied—I know it is—I know it is! And, oh! it may be the ship of Hugh!”
Again the minute gun boomed over the sea.
“Oh, Heaven, how I pity them! What can be the nature of their danger? The storm has almost ceased; if they could live through that terrific tempest, surely they can save themselves now. What can be the danger to which they are exposed now?” asked Alice.
“The ship, tossed about so in the horrible storm, must a’ sprung a leak. Oh, if it should be Hugh’s ship!” replied Miss Joe.
Again the minute gun wailed across the waters.
“And, oh!” exclaimed Alice, wringing her hands, “if there is one thing worse than imminent danger or death to one’s own, it is to be in perfect safety and to hear, near by, the cry of others in extremity, and to be unable to give them aid!”
Once more the minute gun wailed across the waters. It seemed the voice of a last appeal.
“My God, I can scarcely stand this!” exclaimed Alice, shuddering, cowering, stopping her ears, while Miss Joe walked about, groaning, groaning, groaning!
But once more the minute gun wailed across the waters. It seemed the voice of a last reproach.
The two women and the old negro could do absolutely nothing to help the dying ship. They felt their own safety as a shame, and covered their heads to shut out the sound of death. They need not have done so.