But Rupert's mind was made up. "It must be done at once," he said, "or it will be too late. Margery, try and be a little brave, and keep tight hold of Nance if the waves reach you before I can come back. Please God, I will save you yet." Then throwing off his shoes and jacket, he said once more, "Remember to keep tight hold of Nance," and plunged into the seething waters, in which no man could hope to live.
Margery's shriek died into silence, and clutching her little sister, she watched the slight figure tossed on the cruel billows as the boy swam bravely on. How long could his young strength avail against their mighty power?
In a minute he was swept out of sight, and with an awful feeling of loneliness, she crouched on the roof, holding Nance in her arms. Each moment passed slowly as an hour, while the waves crept ever higher and higher, until they washed against the children's feet as they clung closely together. What had become of Rupert? What would become of them? Nance's sobs were hushed from sheer exhaustion, and she only moaned and shivered slightly when the crawling water gained on them inch by inch. Some of her brother's courage had entered Margery's breast in this extremity of peril, and mingling with her broken prayers for aid were words of comfort to her little sister.
But every minute it became plainer to her that they could not keep their hold much longer. Chilled to the heart, their stiffened arms were gradually relaxing. The morning was beginning to break, and its dull gray light showed her nothing but the angry waves on every side. Familiar landmarks were all gone, and the child's lonely heart grew despairing in the midst of so much desolation. All hope was dying fast, when far in the distance came a dark speck, moving steadily over the solid waters, and growing larger and clearer every moment. It was a boat rowed by strong arms that shot forward to help them.
"Nance! Nance!" she sobbed, "they are coming! they are coming! Rupert has sent them, after all. He has saved us, as he said he would."
Another minute, and the two cramped and wearied little figures were lifted down from their perilous resting-place, and laid gently in the boat, Nance hardly conscious, but Margery trembling with the question she scarcely dared to ask.
"Where is Rupert?" she cried. "He sent you, I know; but where is he now?"
The men, two laborers from the manor farm, looked at each other with troubled eyes, but made no answer. Margery's pitiful glance wandered from one down-cast face to the other, as she strove to understand what this silence meant.
"He must have sent you to us," she said, slowly, and as if talking to herself; "else how would you have thought to come?"
"Ay, that he did," answered one of the rowers. "He sent us truly, but he spoke no words to tell his tale. If we had not been a parcel of frightened fools, we would have remembered you before."