On sped the boat while more and more did tide and gale turn her prow into the reef. At the end of it a large, humpbacked rock showed now and again through the surf, like the fin of a black whale. That was the rock which they must clear if they would live. Morris took the boat-hook and laid it by his side. They were very near now. They would clear it; no, the wash sucked them in like a magnet. “Good-bye,” said Morris instinctively, but Stella answered nothing. The wave that lifted them broke upon the rock in a cloud of spray wherein for some few instants their boat seemed to vanish. They were against it; the boat touched, and Stella felt a long ribbon of seaweed cut her like a whip across the face. Kneeling down, Morris thrust madly with the boat-hook, and thus for an instant—just one—held her off. His arms doubled beneath the strain, and then came the back-wash. Oh, heaven! it had swept them clear. The rock was behind, the sail drew, and swiftly they fled away from the death that had seemed certain. Stella sighed aloud, while Morris wiped the water from his face. “Are we clear?” she asked presently. “Of the Sunk Rocks? Yes, we are round them. But the North Sea is in front of us, and what looks like the worst gale that has blown this autumn is rising behind.” “This is a good sea-boat, and on the open water I think perhaps that we ought to weather it,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully, as Morris stowed the sail, for in that wind they wanted no canvas. “I wish we had something to eat,” she added presently; “I am so hungry.” “By good luck I can help you there,” he answered. “Yesterday I was out fishing and took lunch for myself and the boatman; but the fish wouldn’t bite, so we came back without eating it, and it is still in the locker. Shift a little, please, I will get the basket.” She obeyed, and there was the food sure enough, plenty of it. A thick packet of sandwiches, and two boiled eggs, a loaf, and a large lump of cheese for the boatman, a flask of whiskey, a bottle of beer, another of water, and two of soda. They ate up the sandwiches and the eggs, Morris drinking the beer and Stella the soda water, for whiskey as yet she would not touch. “Now,” she said, “we are still provisioned for twenty-four hours with the bread and cheese, the water and the soda which is left.” “Yes,” he answered, “if we don’t sink or die of cold we shall not starve. I never thought that sandwiches were so good before;” and he looked hungrily at the loaf. “You had better put it away; you may want it later,” she suggested. And he put it away. “Tell me, if you don’t mind,” he asked, for the food and the lightening of the strain upon his nerves had made him conversational, “what is that song which you sang upon the ship, and why did you sing it?” She coloured a little, and smiled, a sweet smile that seemed to begin in her eyes.