It certainly seemed as though their chase had ended for that night. The blackness was such that without some kind of beacon it was impossible even to guess where the Mary lay. When this happened the Nancy had been about half a mile or so to the windward of the Mary and about a mile behind her; for Ben had had a thought for the necessity of beating in to the land later, and had kept as much to the windward as possible.
It became necessary to decide how they should now act. Dare, frankly, was at a loss to know what to do, but Ben was not without hope that they might pick up the Mary again if they hauled in a little to the land.
The Mary was on her port tack. The Nancy was half a mile to the windward of her. By laying in on the starboard tack they might come near enough to the Mary to pick up her cabin light again.
Curiously enough, neither Ben nor Dare thought of the obvious thing—that the Mary would use her engine and head straight for the land. They kept to their course.
They showed no lights, and as there was now in their vicinity another boat without lights, both were a menace to each other. Ben recognized the risk, but as they were on the look-out for the Mary he thought it was obviated by their preparedness. And so it might have been if the Mary had been on her port tack, as they thought. Instead of that, the schooner had lowered her sails and was heading for the shore in almost complete silence under the power of her motor.
Ben, in the bow of the Nancy, kept a sharp look-out, as did Dare at the tiller. Both ears and eyes were serving them. But the rising wind was a perfect cover for the movements of the Mary. Even if she had been to the windward of them it is difficult to say if they would have heard her quiet exhaust. As it happened she was to leeward, and heading such a course that in less than twenty minutes she was to bring a swift doom to the Nancy.
It was Dare who first became aware of the impending catastrophe. He had given a glance to leeward and there saw nearly on top of them the black mass of the oncoming ship. He gave a shout of warning and thrust the tiller hard down at the same time, but neither move served his purpose. The cry was too late to be acted upon, and before the Nancy could answer to her helm the bows of the Mary cut her relentlessly in two.
Dare at the impact was flung off his feet and momentarily stupefied. He retained enough of his senses, however, to reach up a hand instinctively for support, and fortunately he found the Mary's head rigging.
He felt the Nancy sink under his feet, and drew himself up towards the Mary's trembling bowsprit. He lay there a minute or so, breathless, and dazed by the suddenness of the catastrophe, his ears filled with the rush of a great wind and the intermittent shouts of alarm voiced by the Mary's crew. Then, once more clear in his mind, he bethought him of Ben, who must have gone down with the boat. His heart sank at the thought, and considerably sobered by the tragic ending to their adventure, he began cautiously to make his way towards the Mary's deck.
The collision had almost as startling an effect on the Mary's crew as it had on Dare. At first they thought their own ship must be fatally hurt and there was a great rush on deck. Pierre, who had been below, was one of the first to reach the scene.