To approach the spot in the boat, however, was impossible without the certainty of her being dashed to pieces.
“Here, hand the bight of the rope to me,” shouted Eban, starting up; “I am the best swimmer among you—if any one can save them I can.”
As he uttered the words he sprang overboard, and with powerful strokes made his way towards the drowning men, while the rest, pulling hard, kept the boat off the rocks, to which she was perilously near.
“Here, here, take him, he is almost gone,” said one of the men in the water, as Eban approached them. “I can hold on longer.”
Eban, grasping the man round the waist and shouting to those in the boat, was hauled up to her stern with his burden. Reuben, assisted by the man pulling the stroke oar, lifted the rescued man into the boat, and Eban once more dashed off to try and save the other.
“Who is it? who is it?” asked the crew, with one voice, for the darkness prevented them from distinguishing his countenance.
No one replied. Reuben hoped it might be Michael—but all his attention was required for the management of the boat, and the rescued man, exhausted, if not severely injured, was unable to reply himself.
Eban was gallantly striking out towards the man who still clung to the spar, but he had miscalculated his strength—he made less rapid way than at first. A cry reached him, “Help, mate! help!” He redoubled his efforts; but before he could reach the spot he saw a hand raised up, and as he grasped the spar he found that it was deserted. The brave fellow, whoever he was, had sacrificed his own life to save that of his drowning companion.
Eban, feeling that his own strength was going, shouted to those in the boat to haul him on board, and he was himself well-nigh exhausted when lifted over the side. One of Reuben’s sons took his oar.
All further search for their missing friends proved in vain, and though thankful that some had been saved, with sad hearts they commenced their perilous return to the harbour.