Within a furlong, on a solitary black stone, which might overtop the entering flood for an hour's space or better, lay Eadwulf, the serf. Utterly beaten, unable to move hand or foot, unable even to raise his head, or look the coming death in the face, where he had fallen, there he lay.
Two minutes, and the farthest of those horsemen might have taken him, might have speared him, where he lay, unresisting, unbeseeching. But none thought of him—none thought of any thing but the sea—the sea.
They paused for an instant to breathe their horses, before turning to ride that desperate race—but in that instant they saw such a sight as chilled their very blood. The other party, which had now retreated before the tide to within a mile of them to the eastward, had now determined, as it seemed, at all risks, to force their way back through the channel of the Beetham water, and entered it one by one, in single file, the unarmed guide leading, and the mail-clad rider bringing up the rear. Each after each, lower they sank and lower, their horses struggling and rolling in the surge. Now their croupes, now their withers disappeared from the eyes of the beholders; now the necks only of the horses and the bodies of the riders were visible above the wash. A moment of suspense, almost intolerable, for every one of those mute gazers felt that he was looking on the counterpart and perfect picture of what must in a few minutes, more or less, be his own fate also! A moment, and the guide's horse struggled upward, his withers reappeared, his croupe—he had cleared the channel, he was safe. A light page followed him, with the like success; two half-armed troopers followed; already, presaging safety, a shout of exultation trembled on the lips of the spectators, when the mail-clad rider on his heavy horse reached the mid-passage—reached the spot where his horse should have gradually emerged—then in an instant, in the twinkling of an eye, before one could breathe a sigh or syllable, a last "God save him"—he sank, sheer and sudden, as if the bottom had yawned under him, and without an effort, a cry, a struggle, was sucked under.
He was there—he was gone; never more to be seen above the face of the waters. At the same instant, just as they uttered one wild cry of horror and despair, or ere they could turn their horses' heads landward, a deep, cold, wet wind breathed upon them; a gray mist swept down on them, out-running the trampling squadrons of the foamy waves; a fierce hail storm smote them; and, in an instant, every thing—shores, billows, skies—vanished from them, wrapped in utter gloom. Then they dispersed, each struggling through the rapidly-mounting waters in that direction which he fancied, in his blindness, should be shoreward. No one of them met other, more, in this world.
Strange it is to tell, but truths are ofttimes very strange, stranger than fiction, at that sharp, awful cry, wrenched by the horrible catastrophe of their comrade from the souls of his pursuers, aroused from the stupor which had fallen upon him, between the excess of weariness and the extremity of despair, Eadwulf raised his head. He saw the white surf tossing and breaking furiously in the distance; he saw the long line of deep, unbroken, swelling water, which had not been driven up from the sea, but had gushed and welled upward through the pores of the saturated sand, rolling in five feet abreast, far in advance of the white rollers; swifter than either, darker and more terrible, he saw the ink-black, ragged hail-storm, a mere mist on the waters' surface—but, above, a contorted pile of solid, convoluted clouds, driving in, like a hurricane, before the breath of the rushing southeaster.
But, in that one lightning glance, he saw also, on the dark polished surface of the smooth water, in advance of the breakers, under the storm-cloud, a long black object, hurrying down before wind and tide, with speed exceeding that of the fleetest race horse, right upon the spot where he sat, despairing. He recognized it, at once, for one of the leathern coracles, as they were called, or rude fishing-boats of the natives of those wild and stormy shores; the rudest perhaps, but at the same time the most buoyant and seaworthy of boats. She was empty, he saw that at a glance, and rode the waves, outstripping the breakers, gallantly. Could he reach her, he might yet be saved.
He sat erect on his rock, resolute, with every nerve quivering with intense excitement, with every faculty braced, ready for the last exertion.
The cloud fell on him black as midnight; the fierce wind smote his elf-locks, making them stream and shiver in its currents; the cutting hail lashed him with arrowy keenness. Quickly as it came, it passed; and a gleam of troubled sunshine shimmered through a rent in the black storm, and glanced like a hopeful smile upon the waters. In that momentary brilliance, the wretch caught a glimpse of the black boat, floating past his solitary rock, and without an instant's hesitation, rushing waist deep into the frothy eddies, fought his way, he never well knew how, through surge and quicksand, till he had caught her by the gunwale. Then, spurning the yielding sands with a tremendous effort, he leaped, or hurled himself rather, into her, and lay for a breathing-space motionless, and stunned by the very perception of the strange vicissitude to which he owed his safety.
But it was no time for self-indulgence; and, ignorant as he was, semi-barbarous, and half-brutalized, he perceived the nature of the crisis. The oars or paddles by which the coracle was impelled were lashed by thongs to her row-locks, and, getting them out at once, Eadwulf plied them vigorously, keeping her right stern before the entering tide, and pulling with all his might, to outstrip the combing of each successive roller.
For a short space, the glimmer in the air continued; then the mist gathered down again, and all was gloom, except the white caps of the breakers, tossing and shivering in the twilight. But it was now mist only; the wind had sunk, and the storm-cloud been driven landward.