At that moment a mountainous wave struck the yacht, making her careen so violently that the mast seemed to touch the sea, and when she righted herself the lowest man was gone!
Without knowing it, I must have sobbed aloud, for Herrick laid a rough hand on my shoulder.
“This ain’t no place for women,” he said, though not unkindly. “You had better go home, Miss Russell.”
“I’ll not go home,” I answered, angrily, and then I, in my turn, grasped his arm.
“What is that in that wave?” I almost screamed, and he answered, with an oath I dare not set down:
“It’s a man!”
Most of the life-saving men were busy paying out the heavy line that was to support the breeches buoy to and from the sinking ship, but one young fellow heard Herrick’s shout, and followed him to the edge of the waves. They were already in their cork belts, and Herrick now fastened a rope round his waist and gave the coil to his companion as he waited for the incoming surge. The two stood like a pair of leashed greyhounds prepared to spring.
On came the roller—not a wall of water, like many that had preceded it, but low, swift and sweeping, with a nasty side twist—and in its foam, sometimes tossed high, sometimes hidden in the spray, came its human burden.
Herrick ran forward to meet the wave, and plunged under as it broke, while we on shore watched with throbbing hearts his game with death. It seemed an even chance whether he would snatch his prey from the sea, or be trampled himself in its cruel pounding. The agony of the moment made it seem interminable, and I think I must have lost consciousness, for I found myself on the sands with my head against the lifeboat, and, a hundred feet away, Herrick and the man he had saved were stretched side by side.
I never saw anything as humanly perfect as that sailor. He was a young man—decidedly under thirty—with the regularity of feature we usually consider Greek, and a look of repose beautiful to behold. Dignity, tenderness and a soft languor all mingled in the expression of his face.