For a minute she could move no further, but had to lie under the pelting rain, with the dark hands of ocean clutching to drag her back. But presently a little strength revived. She crawled forward once more, staggered to her feet, and, falling, getting up again, won to the top of the dune.
Off to her left, dim through the shouting night, the vague light-blurs of old man Gordon’s windows were fronting the tempest. The girl struggled forward, sobbing for breath. Not all the fury of the North Atlantic, flung against that shore, had turned her from her task.
Astonished beyond words, the lobstermen and fishers eyed her with blank faces as she burst in the door. Under the light of tin reflectors, quids remained unchewed, pipes unsmoked. Bearded jaws fell. Eyes blinked.
The girl’s wet, draggled hair, her bloodless face and burning eyes stunned them all.
“Quick, quick!” she implored. “Hal Briggs—”
“What’s he done now, girl?” cried old Sy Whittaker, starting up. “He ain’t hurt you, has he? If he has—”
“He’s been stabbed, aboard the Kittiwink! He’s bleeding to death there!”
Chairs scraped. Excitement blazed.
“What’s that, Laura?” cried Gordon. “Stabbed? Who done it?”
“Oh, no matter—go, quick—go, go!”