As he stood resting a moment before he made the most difficult effort of all to row the last hundred yards dead to the windward, he caught the faint notes of the piano. She was playing, utterly unconscious of the tragic situation in which the two men stood but a hundred yards away. The little schooner was still aground resting easily on her flat bottom in the mud, where the tide had left her as it ebbed. Unless she went on deck, it was impossible for Nan to realize the pressure of the wind.
She was playing one of the dreamy waltzes to which she had danced amid the splendours of her great ball.
The music came over the icy waters accompanied by the moan and shriek of the wind through the rigging with unearthly weird effect.
"Say, why do we stop so much?" Bivens growled. "I'm freezing to death. Let's get to that yacht!"
"We'll do our best," Stuart answered gravely, "and if you know how to pray now's your time."
"Oh, Tommyrot!" Bivens said, contemptuously, "I can throw a stone to her from here."
"Get in!" Stuart commanded, "And lie down again flat on your back."
Bivens obeyed and the desperate fight began.
He made the first few strokes with his oars successfully and cleared the shore, only to be driven back against it with a crash. A wave swept over the little craft dashing its freezing waters into their faces.
Stuart drew his hand across his forehead and found to his horror the water was freezing before he could wipe it off.