It was some time before Ned could discern her rig, and then he discovered that she was a steamer, but a tiny one. Probably some pleasure yacht which had been driven to sea by the fury of the gale and was now unmanageable.
She was almost on her beam-ends, and each time the gigantic waves lifted her on high Ned fancied he could see two forms lashed to the port rail, which was to windward.
Every few seconds she would be carried down, down into the trough of the sea until it seemed as if the storm king was bent on sending her to the bottom, and when she rose again it was with that uncertain, sluggish movement which tells of the weight of water within the hold.
“If she strikes here those poor men are doomed,” Ned cried, much as if fancying some one could hear his words, “and there’s nothing I can do to help them! A fellow would be swept off his feet the instant he so much as touched the surf line!”
That the yacht would strike the shore there could be no question.
If it was possible to guide her into the little bay there might be some chance for those on board to save their lives, for there the surf was not quite so violent; but the apparently doomed ones could not alter the course by so much as a hair’s-breadth.
The beautiful craft was but a plaything for the waves, and as helpless as a wounded bird.
Ned gazed at the terrible scene as if fascinated.
For the first time since the discovery of the treasure did he forget that such a metal as silver had an existence. All his thoughts were centered on this evidence of the storm’s fury, which must apparently soon be blotted from view, and with it would go the lives of two human beings.
Almost unconscious of what he did, Ned walked down toward the water line, until he was as far as it was safe to venture, and once there, fancied he saw one of the figures wave its hands as if imploring him to render some assistance.