The dreadful struggle was over at last; the boats, fully freighted, had pushed off, and lay at a safe distance; those who were left on board knew that they had only to trust now to their own resources, or to a miracle, or to the mercy of Providence. There was scarcely any wind, and what there was blew in a favourable direction, so that little of the smoke or flame came aft.
Suddenly Wyverne turned to his companion, who sat near him, apparently quite cheerful and composed—
"You had better look to yourself, Jock. She won't hold together another quarter of an hour. It's no distance to swim, and they may take you into a boat still, if you try it. You've as good a right to a place as any one now the women are gone."
The Dalesman's broad breast heaved indignantly, and there was a sob in his voice as he replied.
"I'll do your bidding to the last, Sir Alan; but you'll never have the heart to make me leave you. I haven't deserved it."
Wyverne knew better than to press the point.
"Shake hands then, old comrade," he said, with a smile on his lip. "You've served me well enough to have your own way for once. I fancy you have few heavy sins to repent of, but you had better make your peace with God quickly; our minutes are numbered."
Just then a boat ranged up close under the ship's quarter, and a smothered voice called on Wyverne by name. It was the chief officer's, who had determined to make this last effort to save him.
"Let yourself down, Sir Alan, there are ropes enough about, or drop over the side. We'll take you in; you have well deserved it."
He never hesitated an instant—he withstood stronger temptations in his time—but leant over the side and answered, in his own firm, clear tones,