Reuben’s younger son, Simon Lanaherne, had gone aft and sat down by the side of the rescued man.
“He is coming to, I believe.”
“Which of the poor lads is he, Simon?” asked his father.
Simon felt the man’s face and dress, bending his head down to try and scan his features.
“I cannot quite make out; but I am nearly sure it is Michael Penguyne,” answered Simon.
“I am main glad if it be he, for poor Nelly’s sake,” said Reuben. “Pull up your starboard oars, lads, here comes a sea,” he shouted, and a tremendous wave came curling up from the westward.
The attention of every one was engaged in encountering the threatened danger.
“Michael Penguyne! have I saved him?” muttered Eban Cowan, with a deep groan. “He was destined to live through all dangers, then, and Nelly is lost to me. Fool that I was to risk my life when I might have lot him drown. No one could have said that I was guilty of his death.”
Human ear did not listen to the words he uttered, and a voice came to him, “You would have been guilty of his death if you could have saved him and would not.”
He had recovered sufficiently to sit up, and, as he gazed at the angry sea around, his experienced eye told him that even now he and all with him might be engulfed beneath it ere they could reach the shore.