The little gipsy lass had evidently gone right to the big marquee to find rockets, and with these in her possession she had no doubt set out in the little boat towards the stranded bark, over that wild and stormy sea, in the dark o' the neap.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE WRECK OF THE 'CUMBERLAND.'
THAT next half-hour seemed to be the longest for Antony that ever he had passed in his lifetime. That is what he said to his sister Aggie when he wrote and told her all about the events of this fearful night. He first went back towards his caravan, closely followed by Wallace, who appeared to watch his every movement, certain in his canine mind that Antony would do something to find his mistress. For a master stands in the place of a god to his faithful dog, and the latter believes him omnipotent. Hardly knowing what he did, he lit the great lamps, and through their dark-crimson shades their light streamed like blood across the sand and on the surf.
For long minutes he sat beside Wallace, the dog giving vent occasionally to that long, sad sigh that shows every one who knows and understands such an animal that he is in grief—the dog sighing, the man chafing at his own helplessness.
Presently he got up, and descended the steps. He met Mary bustling around, and told her his fears.
All she answered was, 'Then God help our bonny bairn this dread and awful night!'
No comfort in that quarter.
'I fear the worst, Mary,' he said.
'Let us hope for the best, then,' said Mary.
Then he set himself to walking rapidly up and down the beach as if to work away his awful anxiety. And thus a good half-hour was passed. 'Had she succeeded in reaching the doomed ship,' he told himself, 'there would have been some sign ere now. Hallo!'