There was a moment of silence, and every one cast an eye of reproach upon Heen, but no one durst utter a word. “Don't be looking so at me,” says she, to them; “wouldn't you suffer a little, any of ye, to save all?--Many's the fine fellow lost his life for want of less than Norah has got! Better a blow on the head, no matter how big the bump that comes after it,--better that, I say, than be drowned. You've seen a boy in a fit, and six couldn't hould him;--and could a fit, think you, give a boy more strength, than the cry of a child where that one is, would give to a mother that loves it?” All this while,--and it wasn't long,--Ileen was busy tying poor Norah hand and foot. “Oh! for young Paudrigg, now, or any one that could swim!” cried one of the women; “there's not a boy or a man,--no, nor a bit of a boat even, within sight. What will we do, Ileen?” “All of you join with me in a loud wail, children and all,” replied Heen; “may be, Jimmy Fitzgerald's boys, or some of the neighbours near him, isn't gone out, and may hear us.” “Is it a tide any of the fishermen would lose such weather as this, think you, Heen?” asked Peg Dwyer. “Who knows,” says Heen, “what good God may send us? One of them may be kept back to save that poor baby.” So then they set up such a wail, all of them, that it came to me here, where I was dozing; and if anything could have given me the use of my limbs, it would have been that. I tried to stir, but it was of no use:--so, without losing time, in making more efforts, I pulled open the door with my crutch, and hallooed, and cried “Murder!” five or six times, at the top of my voice. Ileen reckoned upon my doing that; for, as soon as the wail was over, says she, “If that does no good, nothing will;--if one of us ran off for help, before she got near any men and they got back again, the sea would be over the child; and the only chance we'd then have, would be in the wave that floated it bringing it ashore: but that's a poor hope; for every moment the tide drives us back, and leaves it farther away from us. But a scream travels faster than a bird. If no one else heard us, Jimmy Fitzgerald must; for he's always at home:--he's an ould sailor, and won't fail to repeat the signal of distress; it's sure to bring somebody to him, and he'll send every one that comes, away here to us:--so that we save the time of running as far as his cabin, by the wail; and there's hope yet the child won't be lost.”