"It'll be all right, sir," said one of the men. "If they can't land here, they can beach her on the sandshore."
"If they only knew enough to do that," wailed the old man. "But they don't—they'll come right on to the rocks."
"Why don't they lower their sail?" said another. "They will upset if they don't."
"They're lowering it now," said Benjamin.
The boat was now about 300 yards from the shore. The sail did not go all the way down—it seemed to be stuck.
"Good God, what's wrong?" exclaimed Mr. Murray.
As he spoke, the boat capsized. A yell of horror rose I from the beach. Mr. Murray sprang toward Benjamin's boat, but one of the men held him back.
"You can't do it, sir. I don't know that anybody can."
Braithwaite and Leon were clinging to the boat. Benjamin Selby, standing in the background, his lips set, his hands clenched, was fighting the hardest battle of his life. He knew that he alone, out of all the men there, possessed the necessary skill and nerve to reach the boat if she could be reached at all. There was a bare chance and a great risk. This man whom he hated was drowning before his eyes. Let him drown, then! Why should he risk—ay, and perchance lose—his life for his enemy? No one could blame him for refusing—and if Braithwaite were out of the way, Mary Stella might yet be his!
The temptation and victory passed in a few brief seconds. He stepped forward, cool and self-possessed.