Adrian saw--to leeward of the yawl--quite close, too, something dark rise on a wave from under the stern almost. Someone gave a call which was blown away by the wind, only a faint echo of it reaching them. Christobel held on to the mizzen and shouted directions. "Row, _row_, Pam--come up to the red light; we’ll get you--don’t be afraid." Adrian hurled himself forward with the boathook, and dropped the steps into the hooks. The figure in the boat was pulling. They could see a white patch of face, and--the hair. Two minutes, and they had got hold of her. Christobel did not know what she was saying; she was sobbing--yet not crying--a perfect frenzy of joy in feeling, actually _feeling_ Pamela’s arm--not a dream, a solid flesh and blood arm--and dragging her up the steps. She was drenched and speechless, and clung to Crow’s hands with a frantic clutch. "Oh, Pam--darling old Pam--it’s all right now--don’t be afraid--it’s all right--you’re safe!" Crow was saying all sorts of things while Adrian was dealing with the dinghy--as far as he could see there was water washing about in her, nothing dangerous, but enough to cover the floor boards. However, he could not stop to bale now, unless it was absolutely necessary. Pam was safe! His hands shook as he knotted the painter with sharp tugs. No getting away this time! No time to be lost! He thought of his mother’s face when they left, of how she would look when they got back--and brought Pam! He choked as he realized that a miracle had happened, and God had sent the dinghy across their path in that wild waste of confusion. Having secured the dinghy, he plunged down the cabin steps just to have one joyous moment of triumph with old Crow before starting on the voyage--well, back. As he entered, his sister turned round; the hanging lamp shone on her face, and he saw, looking at her first, a curious scared expression; not shocked--_amazed_! On the bunk-seat by her side sat a girl--not Pamela! Adrian was conscious of her good looks in a second, but also that she looked terribly ill, quite ghastly. There was a moment or two of tense silence--from words, when the pitching of the yawl seemed more violent, and the noises of rattling, bumping, dashing, splashing, and creaking--the scream of the wind, and the monotonous jar of _Messenger’s_ bows as she crashed down on each succeeding wave--appeared louder than ever before in the memory of the Romilly pair. "I say," said Adrian, sitting down, "what’s up? Excuse me, but who on earth are you?" "Yes, who are you--where’s Pamela?" Christobel backed up her brother once he had spoken, almost fiercely. The girl looked from one to the other. At first hardily, then her lips quivered, and she stared at the table, blinking back tears. "I wish I was dead," she said. [Illustration: "I WISH I WERE DEAD"]