Cries rose for the boat to be launched. But in such a sea it was not possible to do anything. The _Marianne_ was a wreck. No living being was on her. The captain of the coast-guard put his glass to his eye and looked steadily at the tossing—now seen, now obscured—patch that was once the _Marianne_. In the gathering darkness little could be distinguished. “They’ve left her,” he said. “There’s none aboard but a dog. Hark! you can hear him bark.” Those near held their breath. “I can’t hear nothing,” said a seaman. “You can if you look through my glass,” said the captain, “you can then both see and hear the little dog yapping. He wouldn’t be yapping like that unless he’d been left behind.” “But where be they? There was Cap’n Thomas, and Simon Feathers, and Joe Wilcock, and Bill Swan.” “Aye,” said another, “and there’s Tony Graves; his mother be here in a terrible take-on. ’Tis the first time the boy has been so far to sea.” “Where be they?” asked the captain. “I can’t see anything of a boat. They’ve took to it, sure as I’m here, and just as certain she’s capsized.” “Then they’ll be washed ashore, dead or alive,” said one. “Of course they will. ’Tain’t no use trying the lifeboat when you know they’re not in the vessel. You don’t know where to look for ’em.” So the shore was searched, and, first one, then another was recovered; the boy Tony first, alive and not much the worse; then Joe Wilcock dead, or so near death that there seemed no chance of recovering him. With the barbarous ignorance then common, he was thrown across a barrel to let the water run out of his lungs. He struggled, gasped, and was still. Captain Thomas, a large stout man, holding to an oar, forged his way ashore, but he was much bruised and cut by having been beaten against sharp slate rocks like razors. He could not speak, but his eyes were lively, black eyes under white bushy brows. After a quarter of an hour he gasped out, “Where’s Tony? I stood my life to his mother I’d bring him safe home.” “Safe he is,” said some one near. “Then that’s right,” said the captain. “Where’s the rest?” They could tell him only of Joe Wilcock. Feathers and Swan had not been washed ashore. By this time it was night. Lanterns were flashing along the beach. Then up from the water came some one; it was Cicely, drenched to the skin, her hair streaming, but wet as seaweed. She was dragging in her arms a dark mass. Some ran to her with lights. What she was heaving was Will Swan, conscious, for he looked at her, but speechlessly. The moment others drew nigh the girl released her load and disappeared. The night became clearer. The wind shifted to the north, the clouds parted. Stars appeared in the patches of dark sky. The rain ceased, but the sea still thundered and gleamed white. A knock at the cottage door of the old fellow who had charge of the lifeboat. He was out still, but Cicely opened and saw Will Swan before her with both hands extended.