"What a wonderful thing to happen!" said Julia, whose face was whitening with the ardour of her toil.
She looked at nothing but her oar, and was certainly not going to be tired this side the York.
"At sea, where all is wonderful, nothing is wonderful," said Hardy. "Any sailor would easily see how this has come about. But don't waste your breath in talking: let us row."
It was a strange and curious picture: a man and a girl in a little open boat, pulling away for a ship that was rounding into the wind as though she knew they were approaching, whilst astern receded the figure of the brig, a melancholy sight, despite the gun-flashes of sunshine which burst from her side at every roll; her hanging canvas flapped a mournful farewell to the rowers, who took no heed of the poor thing's tender and, for a north-countryman, graceful salutation of good-bye. But, then, she had been a stage of maniacal horrors, of death, of the lonely little ghost that struck the bell, of shipwreck with its stalking shadows of famine, thirst, and the calenture that invites you to die.
Hardy frequently turned to look at the York so as to keep a true course, and this time saw that she was involved in the wind, and was waiting for him to come aboard to tell her what to do. They had four miles to measure, and as they pulled with the spirit of shipwreck in their pulse they were within hail of her in an hour.
No man showed himself; she was abandoned. But suddenly on the forecastle rail appeared the fore-paws and magnificent head of a great Newfoundland dog. He barked deep and long.
"Poor Sailor," said Hardy; "I had forgotten him."
"How inhuman to leave him," said Julia, panting.
"A few more strokes, sweetheart," shouted Hardy, "and we are free. What a noble girl you are! What a good wife you will make a sailor!"