The bay upon the other side of the cliff was larger and by no means well sheltered from a wild sea, though to an ordinary observer it appeared to be a safe anchorage for a vessel.
The lad stood upon a rock overhanging the sea, and commanding a grand view, seemingly unconscious that a false step would hurl him into the waters eighty feet below.
Suddenly he started, for around a point of land heavily wooded a vessel came in sight, driving along under reefed sails before the breeze which was the forerunner of the storm.
“It is one of those beautiful yachts out of Boston; but there can be no pilot on board, or he would have run into Rover’s Roost.
“Why does she not stand out to sea for good room?” said the lad anxiously.
Then he watched the vessel attentively, a large schooner yacht of some two hundred tons burden, painted white, which was driving along like a huge thing of life seeking a place of refuge from the storm.
“Great Cæsar’s ghost! she is running into Hopeless Haven in the very teeth of this storm. She will be wrecked!” and the boy’s voice now rang out in dire alarm for the safety of the beautiful vessel.
He saw her run, to what her skipper evidently believed a safe anchorage; the anchors were let fall and the sails furled.
Then Mark Merrill waited no longer, for from his lips came the words:
“She is doomed unless I can save her! I have no time to get my boat and run around the point, for the storm would catch me halfway—yes, I must take the chances and swim out to her!”