The Romance of the Coast | Page 9

firing of
small-arms, and the waves in the hollow rocks seemed to shake the
ground over the cliffs. A little schooner came round the point, running
before the sea. She might have got clear away, because it was easy
enough for her, had she clawed a short way out, risking the beam sea,
to have made the harbour where the fishers were. But the skipper kept
her close in, and presently she struck on a long tongue of rocks that
trended far out eastward. The tops of her masts seemed nearly to meet,
so it appeared as if she had broken her back. The seas flew sheer over
her, and the men had to climb into the rigging. All the women were
watching and waiting to see her go to pieces. There was no chance of
getting a boat out, so the helpless villagers waited to see the men drown;
and the women cried in their shrill, piteous manner. Dorothy said, "Will
she break up in an hour? If I thowt she could hing there, I would be
away for the lifeboat." But the old men said, "You can never cross the
burn." Four miles south, behind the point, there was a village where a
lifeboat was kept; but just half-way a stream ran into the sea, and across
this stream there was only a plank bridge. Half a mile below the bridge
the water spread far over the broad sand and became very shallow and
wide. Dorothy spoke no more, except to say "I'll away." She ran across
the moor for a mile, and then scrambled down to the sand so that the
tearing wind might not impede her. It was dangerous work for the next
mile. Every yard of the way she had to splash through the foam,
because the great waves were rolling up very nearly to the foot of the
cliffs. An extra strong sea might have caught her off her feet, but she
did not think of that; she only thought of saving her breath by escaping
the direct onslaught of the wind. When she came to the mouth of the
burn her heart failed her for a little. There was three-quarters of a mile
of water covered with creamy foam, and she did not know but what she
might be taken out of her depth. Yet she determined to risk it, and
plunged in at a run. The sand was hard under foot, but, as she said,
when the piled foam came softly up to her waist she "felt gey funny."

Half-way across she stumbled into a hole caused by a swirling eddy,
and she thought all was over; but her nerve never failed her, and she
struggled till she got a footing again. When she reached the hard
ground she was wet to the neck, and her hair was sodden with her one
plunge "overhead." Her clothes troubled her with their weight in
crossing the moor; so she put off all she did not need and pressed
forward again. Presently she reached the house where the coxswain of
the lifeboat lived. She gasped out, "The schooner! On the Letch!
Norrad."
The coxswain, who had seen the schooner go past, knew what was the
matter. He said, "Here, wife, look after the lass," and ran out. The
"lass" needed looking after, for she had fainted. But her work was well
done; the lifeboat went round the point, ran north, and took six men
ashore from the schooner. The captain had been washed overboard, but
the others were saved by Dorothy's daring and endurance.

THE SILENT MEN.
Two very reckless fellows used always to go fishing together, and used
also to spend their leisure together. One was known as Roughit; and the
other was called Lance. Roughit was big, with heavy limbs and a rather
brutal face. He wore his hair and beard very long, and his eyes looked
morosely from under thick reddish eyebrows. He scarcely ever spoke to
anybody; and some of the superstitious fishermen did not like to meet
him in the morning, because they thought he always brought them bad
luck. Lance was a handsome man, with small hands and feet. He was
not like the shaggy giants of the village--and, indeed, it had been said
that some people at the Hall knew more about his parentage than might
at first sight be supposed. The two men never talked much, and never
exchanged any kind of greeting when they met and parted. Both of
them were such expert boatmen that excepting on very dark nights they
scarcely needed to communicate except by signs.
On summer afternoons when the herrings were coming southward
Roughit would knock at Lance's door and pass on without a word.

Presently Lance would come out, with his oilskins