They had hoped to touch her bow; but now they saw it would be well if they could get near her stern. Back ran the mate with his rope. Not a word was spoken. No one ventured to call for greater exertions from that brave, strong boy, who was plying his oar so mightily. And now the moment had come. Forward sprang the mate, and the rope sped through the air. Arthur’s hands were extended to seize it. Bruce did not abate one stroke, but worked with desperate energy. The boat was borne past the schooner’s quarter. The rope touched Arthur’s right hand,--his fingers closed around it. Alas! it was but the extreme end of the rope that he held; and before his other hand could seize it, it had slipped through his fingers, and fell into the water. “Row, row, Bruce! I’ve dropped the rope!” A groan burst from Bruce. He gave three tremendous strokes. They were the last efforts of despairing energy. As he moved his arms to make the fourth, he staggered back. The oar fell from his nerveless grasp. He sank down, with a groan, at the bottom of the boat. “Boys, I--I’m dying!” Gasping out these words, Bruce closed his eyes, and lay motionless. A cry of dismay and terror burst from the schooner. Pallid faces, and eyes of horror, were turned toward the boat, which now, hurled on by the swift current, was borne farther and farther away, until at last it vanished from view in the fog. VI. _Up Anchor and after them.--Blast of the Foghorn.--A long Search amid Mists, and Darkness, and Storms._ AS the boat drifted away from the schooner, horror for a time seemed to have struck dumbness into all on board. From this stupor Mr. Long was the first to rouse himself. “Captain,” he cried, “we must up sail and after them.” “Which way shall wo go?” “After them any way. Follow the poor lads before they get any farther. Come, boys, up with the anchor! Corbet, up with your sails!” The way that anchor was walked up was a wonder. In an incredibly short space of time the schooner was dashing through the water, swept on by wind and tide. “Which way does this current take us?” asked Mr. Long. “Well, right round the island, and down to Biomidon, and then out into the Bay of Fundy.” “I can’t see the island.” “No; the fog’s too thick; but it’s right off there,” said Captain Corbet, waving his left hand. “I suppose the poor lads couldn’t work ashore.” “Not with, their bare hands. Their oar’s gone--that’s the mischief of it.” Mr. Long looked gloomily around. “The only thing, then, is for us to follow on where they may be drifting.” “You’ve hit the nail on the head, sir. There’s nothin’ else for us--not a hooter.” “How far is the main land from here?” “Several miles.” “Does the current strike near it anywhere?” “No, _sir!_ It goes straight in a bee line for Blomidon.” “After leaving this island, then, Blomidon is the nearest land for them.” “Yes, or Parrsboro’.” “How long will it take them to drift there?” “About three hours.”