With a rush and roar like the fall of a mighty forest tree, the mast, splitting at the deck, toppled over across the rail.
Brandon uttered a despairing shout, for it seemed impossible for the wreck ever to right herself, the weight of the fallen spar dragged her over so far.
But providentially the mast had split clear off at the deck, and after staggering a moment from the blow, the brig shook off her incumbrance, and came to an even keel again.
But following the falling of the mast came a shriek from Milly Frank which pierced his very soul.
“Brandon! Brandon! Help!”
With that cry ringing in his ears, the boy dashed forward along the slippery deck and reached the spot where he had left his companions.
“Quick! this way!” called the girl’s clear voice, and darting to the rail he was just able to grasp the captain’s daughter and drag her back from the cruel sea.
“Now him!” commanded the girl, and pulling in the line which was still attached to her waist, Brandon drew the form of Swivel out of the waves.
“Oh, he is dead!” cried Milly in agony. “He saved me, Brandon. When the mast fell he cut the rope and took me in his arms and ran, but one of the ropes tripped him up and we were washed to the rail by that great wave.”
“I hope he isn’t dead—oh, I hope not!” Brandon returned, kneeling down beside the motionless boy, and chafing his forehead tenderly.