“It’s the boat. She wore a red cloak. Come down, come down.”
“No; stop till we see how they are driving. There’s time enough.”
As far as they could calculate, the boat (if boat it was) was being driven straight for Sheephaven Cove, under the cliff on which they stood—a furious, rugged shore—unless, indeed, a miracle should chance to pitch them into the deep, natural harbour that lay in between the low rocks and the headland.
“Come down,” said Armstrong again.
From the sea-level nothing, not even the red speck, was discernible; and for a terrible five minutes they wondered, as they scrambled out on hands and knees to the outmost limit of the jutting rocks, whether, among the wild breakers, the little boat and its precious crew had not vanished for ever.
It was all they could do to struggle to their feet, and, clinging to the rocks, turn their faces seaward. A new paroxysm of the gale well-nigh dashed them backwards, and for a time prevented their seeing anything. But in a minute or two it eased off enough to allow them to open their eyes.
“See—there—look out, look out,” cried the doctor, pointing.
He was right. About a quarter of a mile away, buffeted like a cork on the water, was a boat, and in it something red.
“Stand up and wave; it’s no use shouting,” said Armstrong.
Taking advantage of a temporary lull, they stood and waved their coats above their heads. Whether they were seen or not, they could not tell. No signal came in return; only the boat—as it seemed, stern-foremost—drove on towards them.