In silence they approached the drifting object, the boat’s prow cutting sharply the opposing waves.
Now it was twenty yards away—ten yards—five-yards—then the boat bumped gently on the logs and Dr. Goldbeck boarded the raft, followed quickly by his two companions.
“Meln himmel!” he cried. “What can this mean? Six dead bodies! Horrible! horrible!”
He turned pale for a moment. Then, as his professional instinct asserted itself, he knelt beside the motionless forms, and one by one tore the breast covering away and applied his hand to the heart.
“Ach!” he cried joyfully, rising to his feet, “they still live; there still remains a spark of life! To the shore, quick! lose no time, or all will die!”
A rope was speedily hitched to the raft, and the men began to pull lustily for the bank.
“Captain Becker,” exclaimed Lieutenant von Leyden, suddenly smacking his knee, “you are two hundred thalers out of pocket. There lie the lost men now. That is Sir Arthur Ashby with the sandy beard, and the others are no doubt his companions.”
“Tausend donner! that is true!” cried the doctor. “You are right, Carl. It is miraculous!”
Captain Becker smiled grimly, but said nothing.
A severe pull of ten minutes brought the raft to the little wharf, and in the strong arms of the German soldiers the rescued men were borne tenderly into the garrison-house and placed on cots that had been made up in readiness for them.