But the inexplicable chance which had broken off the mizzenmast and laid it carelessly, like a match, diagonally against the mainmast and close to the maintop had shaken from their lashings two of the three human figures that had been visible on it and had brought the third, and only remaining one, almost within arm’s reach of the two rescuers. There was no trouble getting him free and into the maintop where the buoy was waiting, empty, ready to give someone a ride to the shore. He was immovable and partly frozen, lifeless or nearly so. One would not have judged that there could be much chance of saving him even if he were got ashore; but that was not a question to take into consideration. The wind howled, the sea made an indescribable noise. The two could just manage to strap the man to the buoy and give the signal to haul away. XXII Ashore, in the house, Mary Vanton’s foresight and careful preparation were being vindicated, and the facilities that she had at her disposal were being taxed to the limit. Four men had been brought ashore in the buoy. All four of them had to be stripped of their clothing and partially reclothed in dry apparel. All four needed brandy, coffee, food, none of them was in a condition to receive. Of these and of the Coast Guardsmen some were frostbitten and had to be rubbed with snow, others had cuts and bruises that required attention. Two were delirious, and for these she found some sedative; no one, herself included, ever could remember afterward what it was. One long living room did really resemble a hospital ward. The other living room resembled a free-lunch counter in unusual disarray. Food was beginning to play out, but of hot coffee there remained a plenty for all. Keturah and the servant tended to the food and drink, except that Mary herself kept charge of the brandy. The governess was busy with bandages and liniments; John stood watch over the patients and ministered to them as best he could, helping his mother. Young Guy, exhausted from the excitement, had been carried at last, half asleep, to his bed and simply dropped upon it with his clothes on. Through all the excitement the youngest child, Mermaid, had slept without waking. It was now two o’clock in the morning. The door opened, for the one hundred and thirty-first time, perhaps, that night, and two Coast Guardsmen stumbled in carrying the lifeless body of Guy Vanton. Mary Vanton looked upon it without a tremor, kept control of herself absolutely until it was certain that he was dead. Then she had him carried into her room upstairs and herself covered his face. She came out quietly and turned the key in the door, slipped it into her pocket, and started downstairs. Something in her expression sent terror striking right through the heart of her first-born. John was beside her, had kept beside her from the moment when his father’s body was brought in. His arm went about her. “Mother!”