We stood there against the wind, as doomed and helpless Joe Clark's tug crashed on to the fatal Ghoul. It clung there, as if trying to live. Five,—ten,—fifteen minutes it clung, being beaten and ripped against the teeth of the rock; then suddenly it split and dissolved from view.
Neil had the telescope at his eye again. He handed it to me quickly. "George!—look and tell me. D'ye see anybody clinging there to the far tooth of The Ghoul? My eyes ain't too good. But, if yon's a man, God rest his soul."
I riveted my gaze on the point.
There I could see as clearly as if it were only a few yards off. Even the features of the man who clung there so tenaciously I could make out.
"My God! It is Joe Clark," I exclaimed in excitement.
With the cry of a mother robbed of her young, Rita dashed down the rocks to the cove where Neil Andrews' boat lay. She pushed it into the water and sprang into it, pulling against the tide-rip like one possessed. I darted after her, but she was already ten yards out when the boat swamped and was thrown back on the beach.
Just as the undertow was sucking Rita away, I grabbed at her and dragged her to safety.
"Let me go! Let me go!" she screamed, battering my chest. "It's Joe. It's my Joe. He's drowning."
I held her fast.
She looked up at me suddenly with a strange quietness, as if she did not understand me and what I did. As she spoke, she forgot her King's English.