Pulling with all her might, the stout young oarsman held her boat’s stern to the gale. They rose. They fell. They rose again, this time in the midst of hissing foam.
“This—this is going to be worth telling,” she shrieked. “If we live to tell it.
“But I don’t think we will,” she whispered to herself.
Now and again sharp flashes of lightning revealed their position. They were working back into the cove. But each moment the storm grew wilder. The wind fairly shrieked in their ears. Their hair flew out wildly. Some sea bird, seeking shelter, shot past them at a wild speed.
Clinging to one another, Jeanne and Greta sat in the stern. As Greta watched that onrushing pillar of cloud, she was all but overcome by the conviction that never again would they romp upon the deck of the ill-fated ship.
“And we have known such joy there!” she told herself with a low sob. “Our swimming pool, long, lazy hours in the sun, songs at sunset. When shall we know such joys again?”
Then a strange question crept into her mind. What was it the men on the black schooner had sought on the wreck?
“Whatever it was,” she whispered, “they will never find it now.”
And yet, could she be sure of this? Moments, not hours, would tell.
Then the storm broke. A vivid flash revealed the dark column. It appeared to hover over the Pilgrim.