He said, in answer to a volley of questions, that no help could be given till the sea went down and the tide had risen. A ledge of rocks lay between the two ships, already defined occasionally by a thrash of foam over which no boat could pass.
The stranger must have been carried across it at high water some hours earlier, had struck on a second ledge between that and the shore, and was now equally cut off from succour from the sea or from the land.
Rockets were at once suggested, but Sir Anthony explained that the distance was too great for a rocket line to cover, and that the tides precluded the floating in of a buoy. Nothing could be done but wait and pray that the vessel might not break up during the next twelve hours.
Some one asked if she were likely to, and Sir Anthony admitted that she had signalled her fears of such an event.
"Couldn't some one swim to her?" said a voice from the taffrail.
Sir Anthony shook his head; to cross the ledge with the break of water on it at present would be to court almost certain death.
There was a pause; all eyes were turned towards the reef, where the vessel lay in the gay morning, like some masquerade of death, between the lovely colours of the sea and shore.
Caragh leant back in his chair with a yawn, and looked up at the sky.
"I'll take a line to her," he said placidly.
The backs of the heads between him and the ship's side became suddenly a ring of faces, and the first stupidity of surprise was expressed by the question, "Can you swim?"