“So be it,” he bursts out, with a coarse laugh. “Your blood be on your own head. I’ll leave you, and save the gallows the trouble of hanging you. Come on, girl.”
These last words are addressed to Léonie.
“What! go with you, and leave her? I’ll drown rather!” exclaims Léonie, with a contemptuous laugh.
“Drown like a rat, then,” he says with an oath, as he bangs the door and leaves them. They hear him scrambling up the little companion ladder, they hear his voice shouting to the skipper, but the wind shrieks louder, and the howl of the tempest drowns all other sounds.
Again there is a rush of water along the deck, a hissing and washing sound, as the huge wave which has occasioned it tears madly on its course, part of it bursting open the cabin door, and flooding the floor on which Gloria and Léonie are standing.
“We must get on deck, Léonie; we can’t stay here, child. Here, take hold of my hand; we must keep together,” exclaims Gloria in a quick, peremptory voice.
They are half-blinded by the thick spray which sweeps in their faces as they stagger up the ladder, clinging like grim death to the rails. It is pitch dark, not the faintest gleam of light gives them the smallest indication of their whereabouts, only the white foam of the towering billows now and again flashes across their aching eyes, blinded by the salt sea water.
Plenty of wreckage is floating about on the deck, and amongst it a life-belt knocks up against one of Gloria’s ankles. With a pleased exclamation she at once secures it, and proceeds to slip it over Léonie’s shoulders.
“If this poor wreck founders,” she explains as she does so, “this will keep you afloat, child. I am glad I saw it.”
“But you,” says Léonie quickly; “you have not one.”