"Oh, God bless and keep you forever and ever," cried Greeba; and, lifted completely out of all self-control, she threw her arms about the young man and kissed him fervently on the cheek. It was Jason. He had found a rope and coiled one end of it about his waist, and held the other end in his hand. The touch of Greeba's quivering lips had been as fire to him. "Lay hold," he cried, and threw the loose end of the rope to Thurstan Fairbrother. At the next moment he was breast-high in the sea. The man must have seen him coming, for the loud clamor ceased.
"Brave lad!" said Greeba, in a deep whisper.
"Brave, is it? It's mad, I'm calling it," said old Davy.
"Who is it?" said the skipper.
"The young Icelander," said Davy.
"Not the lad Jason?"——
"Aw, yes, though—Jason—the gawk, as they're saying. Poor lad there's a heart at him."
The people held their breath. Greeba covered her eyes with her hands, and felt an impulse to scream. Wading with strong strides, and swimming with yet stronger strokes, Jason reached the boat. A few minutes afterwards he was back on the shore, dragging the man after him.
The man lay insensible in Jason's arms, bleeding from a wound in the head. Greeba stooped quickly to peer into his face in the darkness, and then rose up and turned away with a sigh that was like a sigh of relief.
"He's done for," said Jason, putting him down.