It had come at last, just as Dan had seen it coming all through the night—all through the years. His voice roared from the bridge:
"To the boats—every man to his station!"
The command was taken up and carried along, and noiseless shapes limned briefly in the fire glow, scuttled quickly to their appointed places. Mr. Howland and his party stumbled out of the saloon with blanched faces and parted lips, but quietly.
"Women to the rail!" The cry echoed out over the sea,—over the sea, which has heard these chivalrous words so often.
"Women first—women to the rail!" Dan's cry was taken up by the officers. Silent figures in trailing garments moved as they were bid.
From the port quarter a gruff voice sounded.
"Ready, men—ease away." Came the creak of tackle, the thud of iron upon steel—then a silence—then a rattle of oars in thole-pins—then a clear hail from the darkness: "All's well, Captain Merrithew!"
Another boat clattered down the steel sides and cleared safely, and still another. The last boat was filling with the last of the crew.
"Everybody accounted for?" Dan's shout as he rushed down from the curling bridge brought Mr. Howland up with a sudden fear. He had taken his daughter to the starboard boat only to find it full, and had sent her across to the third boat, while he superintended the adjustment of a wedged block. This done, he had hurried to the starboard, only to find the third boat overboard and well away. He had assumed that she was all right. But a cold rush of doubt assailed him.
"Virginia, Virginia—are you all right?" he called in tones of agony.