"See," he replied, as he helped her up the steps, "the gulls are flying over our heads: land must be near."
It was horribly true that the vessel was thumping and bumping on the rocks; the surf was roaring, and it seemed impossible for a boat to be launched. The sailors were making ready to cast themselves into the sea. Some were cursing, others praying, and others tying and lashing themselves to spars which they had taken from their fastenings. Two of them came up to Lars.
"Sir, for the sake of the child there, we will swim, if we can, to the shore, and get help."
"It would be useless," said Lars.
"Oh no," said Ilda; "let them try. They are brave. Perhaps they will succeed."
They nodded, and went off, Lars looking after them hopelessly as he muttered: "I might have known this; it is just my luck. Oh, Ilda! Ilda! why did I bring you with me?—and poor little Hanne!"
The child clung to her mother, her blue eyes dilated with fear, and her little hands about her mother's neck.
"Hush, Lars," said Ilda; "where thou art, there I would be, and so would Hannchen. God is yet able to save us."
The moments seemed like days; presently the vessel gave a great lurch to one side, and Lars had just time to tie Ilda to him as the waves broke over the jagt.
