As we neared the Ba, steadying herself by leaning on my shoulder, Maggie stood half up and waved the lantern, and it was answered from the wreck. Next moment it seemed to me we were on the lee side, and Maggie herself hailed the shipwrecked people.
"We cannot come nearer!" she cried; "lower your boat and follow our light closely."
"Take the tiller now," she continued, addressing me, "and steer for the light you see on the cliff. Keep her well up, though, or all will be lost."
We waited—and that with difficulty—for a few minutes, till we saw by the starlight that the yacht's boat was lowered, then away we went.
The light on the cliff-top moved slowly down the wind. I kept the boat's head a point or two above it, and on she dashed. The rocks loomed black and high as we neared them, the waves breaking in terrible turmoil beneath.
Suddenly the light was lowered over the cliff down to the very water's edge.
"Steady, now!" cried my brave cousin, and next moment we were round a point and into smooth water, with the yacht's boat close beside us. The place was partly cave, partly "noss." We beached our boats, and here we remained all night, and were all rescued next morning by a fisherman's yawl.
The yacht's people were the captain, his wife, and one boy—the whole crew Norwegians, Brinster by name.
My story is nearly done. What need to tell of the gratitude of those Maggie's heroism had saved from a watery grave!
But it came to pass that when, a few months afterwards, a beautiful new yacht came round to the fiord to take those shipwrecked mariners away, Cousin Maggie went with them on a visit.