Miss Coleshaw seemed to grow fainter, and
that Mrs. Atherfield got restless, as if she
were waking out of her long dream about the
Golden Lucy.

It got on towards sunset. The wind
was rising to half a gale. The clouds
which had been heavy all over the firmament
since noon, were lifting to the westward, and
leaving there, over the horizon line of the
ocean, a long strip of clear pale greenish sky,
overhung by a cloud-bank, whose ragged
edges were tipped with burning crimson by
the sun. I did not like the look of the night,
and, keeping where I was, in the forward
part of the boat, I helped the men to ease
the strain off our mast, by lowering the yard
a little and taking a pull on the sheet, so as
to present to the wind a smaller surface even
of our small sail. Noting the wild look of
the weather, and the precautions we were
taking against the chance of a gale rising in
the night—and being, furthermore, as I believe,
staggered in their minds by the death that had
taken place among them—three of the passengers
struggled up in the bottom of the boat,
clasped their arms round me as if they were
drowning men already, and hoarsely
clamoured for a last drink of water, before the
storm rose and sent us all to the bottom.

“Water you shall have,” I said, “when I
think the time has come to serve it out. The
time has not come yet.”

“Water, pray!” they all three groaned
together. Two more passengers who were
asleep, woke up, and joined the cry.

“Silence!” I said. “There are not two
spoonsful of fresh water left for each man in
the boat. I shall wait three hours more for
the chance of rain before I serve that out.
Silence, and drop back to your places!”

They let go of me, but clamoured weakly
for water still; and, this time, the voices of
some of the crew joined them. At this
moment, to my great alarm (for I thought
they were going mad and turning violent
against me), I was seized round the neck
by one of the men, who had been standing
up, holding on by the mast, and looking
out steadily to the westward.

I raised my right hand to free myself; but
before I touched him, the sight of the man’s
face close to mine made me drop my arm
again. There was a speechless, breathless,
frantic joy in it, that made all the blood in
my veins stand still in a moment.

“Out with it!” I said. “Man alive, out
with it, for God’s sake!”

His breath beat on my cheek in hot, quick,
heavy gasps; but he could not utter a word.
For a moment he let go of the mast (tightening
his hold on me with the other arm) and
pointed out westward—then slid heavily down
on to the thwart behind us.

I looked westward, and saw that one of
the two trustworthy men whom I had left
at the helm was on his feet looking out
westward, too. As the boat rose, I fixed my eyes
on the strip of clear greenish sky in the west,
and on the bright line of the sea just under
it. The boat dipped again before I could see
anything. I squeezed my eyelids together to
get the water out of them, and when we rose
again looked straight into the middle of the
bright sea-line. My heart bounded as if it
would choke me—my tongue felt like a
cinder in my mouth—my knees gave way
under me—I dropped down on to the thwart,
and sobbed out, with a great effort, as if I
had been dumb for weeks before, and had
only that instant found my speech:

“A sail! a sail!”

The words were instantly echoed by the
man in the stern sheets.

“Sail, ho!” he screeches out, turning
round on us, and swinging his arms about
his head like a madman.

This made three of our company who had
seen the ship already, and that one fact was
sufficient to remove all dread lest our eyes
might have been deceiving us. The great
fear now was, not that we were deluded, but
that we might come to some serious harm
through the excess of joy among the people;
that is to say, among such of the people as
still had the sense to feel and the strength to
express what they felt. I must record in my
own justification, after confessing that I lost
command over myself altogether on the
discovery of the sail, that I was the first who
set the example of self-control. I was in a
manner forced to this by the crew frantically
entreating me to lay-to until we could make
out what course the ship was steering—a
proceeding which, with the sea then running,
with the heavy lading of the boat, and with
such feeble substitutes for mast and sail as
we possessed, must have been attended with
total destruction to us all. I tried to remind
the men of this, but they were in such a
transport—hugging each other round the
neck, and crying and laughing all in a breath
—that they were not fit to listen to reason.
Accordingly, I myself went to the helm
again, and chose the steadiest of my two men
in the after part of the boat, as a guard over
the sheet, with instructions to use force, if
necessary, towards any one who stretched out
so much as a finger to it. The wind was
rising every minute, and we had nothing for
it but to scud, and be thankful to God’s
mercy that we had sea-room to do it in.

“It will be dark in an hour’s time, sir,”
says the man left along with me when I took
the helm again. “We have no light to show.
The ship will pass us in the night. Lay to,
sir! For the love of Heaven, give us all a
chance, and lay to!” says he, and goes
down on his knees before me, wringing his
hands.

“Lay to!” says I. “Lay to, under a coat!
Lay to, in a boat like this, with the wind
getting up to a gale! A seaman like you
talk in that way! Who have I got along
here with me? Sailors who know their craft,