"The lubbers! The lubbers!" exclaimed the Norwegian skipper, using a term which he considered to be the last word of nautical malediction. Whatever sympathies he had for the Teuton had now flown to the winds. The torpedo from the recreant submarine had converted one more biassed neutral into a staunch moral foe of kultur.
Chagrined by the failure, the German submarine did not discharge another torpedo. Her periscopes disappeared, and although Aubyn kept a vigilant lookout, he saw no more signs of her.
By this time the "Roldal" was badly down by the head. At intervals it seemed as if she would not shake herself free of the tons of water that poured over her decks. Her very sluggishness suggested to the experienced seamen that there was very little life left in the vessel.
"Release the prisoners, Saunders," ordered Terence, leaning over the bridge rails and addressing a petty officer. "See that they are served out with lifebelts."
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the man, as he hurried below, where eighteen frenzied Germans were clamouring to be let out.
There was nothing more to be done to safeguard the lives of the crew. The men, British and Norwegian, were steady and under perfect control. All wore either life-belts or inflated swimming-collars, although the possibility of gaining the shore seemed very remote in view of the mountainous seas breaking against the sheer wall of iron-bound cliff.
"Let me give you a hand, old man," said Terence, offering a life-belt to Raeburn.
The assistant engineer shook his head.
"Thanks, I'm not having any," he replied. "I never was fond of icy cold water, so the sooner it's over the better. Wonder what old Smithers will do with my pipe? I wish I had it now."
"Try a cigarette," suggested Aubyn.