‘Has the boat left us, Mr. Dugdale?’
With a desperate effort I rallied myself, and watching for my chances betwixt the wild slopings of the deck, I reached the deck-house, and held on by the girl’s side.
‘The boat has been blown away. The men fell imbecile, I do believe, when they saw their officer drop overboard. What madmen to let go the painter, to manœuvre with three oars in a heavy cutter in the teeth of such a wind as this, and on the top of that swell!’
‘Did they recover the lieutenant?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Oh, Mr. Dugdale,’ she shrieked, ‘do you tell me he is drowned?’
‘Yes—yes—he is drowned,’ I answered, scarce able to articulate for the sudden fit of horror that came upon me again.
‘Drowned!’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh no—not so suddenly! He may be struggling close against the vessel now’—she moved as if to go to the side to look. I grasped her arm.
‘Do not stir,’ I cried; ‘the slope of the deck will carry you overboard. It is all open to the water abreast of us.’
‘Shocking! It is unendurable! Drowned so swiftly! And the boat—the boat, Mr. Dugdale?’