"There's only one thing to be done," he continued. "It's kill or cure, so here goes."
Pulling out his pocket-knife, Terence made his way to the stump of the mainmast, to which, ten feet above the deck, was bent the "tail jigger," or rope through which the endless line was rove and the stout hawser from which the breeches-buoy was suspended.
Securing a foothold on the spider-band Aubyn found that he could now easily reach the object of his attack. The blade of his knife, though small, was sharp. The strain on the hemp aided his efforts, and in a very short time both means of communication with the shore were severed.
His own retreat was cut off, but the helpers on the cliff were now able to haul Kenneth through the breakers. They understood the act of self-sacrifice of the solitary figure on the wreck and acted promptly.
[Illustration: "The strain on the hemp aided his efforts.">[
Anxiously he followed the progress of that small black object that was being towed rapidly towards the base of the cliffs. He knew the risk. Even in the case of a man in full possession of the use of his limbs the danger of being hurled against that almost perpendicular wall of rock was appalling.
He held his breath. Kenneth was clear of the waves—no, almost, for a smother of white foam had hidden him temporarily from the lieutenant's sight. The next moment the surf had subsided, revealing the breeches-buoy and its occupant like a spider at the end of its thread.
The rope was swinging violently, but owing to the fact that here the cliffs overhung the sea Raeburn was not being continually bumped against the rocks. Instead he seemed to be clear of that danger, and the higher he was pulled up, the shorter became the swing of that exaggerated pendulum.