“Sit down, Lady Scarlett!” he cried in a fierce, hoarse voice.—“Hold her, or she will be over.”
Aunt Sophia had already seized her niece’s dress, and was dragging her back, the three women sitting with blanched faces and parted ashy lips, gazing at the place where Scarlett had gone down.
“Don’t be alarmed; he swims like a fish,” said the doctor, though grave apprehension was changing the hue of his own countenance, as he stood watching for the reappearance of his friend.
“Help! help!” cried Lady Scarlett suddenly; and her voice went echoing over the water.
“Hush! be calm,” cried the doctor.—“Here, quick—you—Mr Prayle! Come and shove down the boat-hook here. She’s drifting. Mind, man, mind!” he cried, as Prayle, trembling visibly, nearly fell over as he stooped to get out the boat-hook.
He thrust it down into the water, but in a timid, helpless way.
“Put it down!” cried the doctor; and then, seizing an oar by the middle, he used it as a paddle, just managing to keep the boat from being swept away.
They were twenty yards at least from where Scarlett went down: but had he possessed the power to urge the boat forward, Scales dared not have sent it nearer to the piles with that freight on board. And still those terrible moments went on, lengthening first into one and then into a second minute, and Scarlett did not reappear.
“Why does he not come up?” said Prayle, in a harsh whisper.
“Silence, man! Wait!” cried the doctor hoarsely, as he saw Lady Scarlett’s wild imploring eyes.