hen they tried
again, but this time with less effect than before, through their
fatigue. When they were obliged to pause they looked at each other
questioningly, and more than one of them turned a trifle paler, and at
last the wisest of them spoke out:--

"Lads," he said, "we conna do this oursens. Run for help, Jem Coulter,
an' run wi' thy might, fur it wunnot be so long afore th' tide'll flow."

Up to this time the man on the sands had lain with closed eyes and set
teeth, but when he heard this his eyes opened and he looked up.

"Eh!" he said, in that blind, stupid fashion. "What's that theer tha's
sayin' Mester?"

"Th' tide," blundered the speaker. "I wur tellin' him to look sharp,
that's aw."

The poor fellow moved restlessly.

"Aye! aye!" he said. "Look sharp--he mun do that. I didna think o' th'
tide." And he shut his eyes again with a faint groan.

They strove while the messenger was gone; and they strove when he
returned with assistance; they strove with might and main, until not a
man among them had the strength of a child, and the boldest of them were
blanching with a fearful, furtive excitement none dared to show. A crowd
had gathered round by this time--men willing and anxious to help, women
suggesting new ideas and comforting the wounded man in rough, earnest
style; children clinging to their mothers' gowns and looking on
terror-stricken. Suddenly, in the midst of one of their mightiest
efforts, a sharp childish voice piped out from the edge of an anxious
group a brief warning that struck terror to every heart that beat among
them.

"Eh! Mesters!" it said, "th' tide's creepin' up a bit."

The men looked round with throbbing pulses, the women looked also, and
one of the younger ones broke into a low cry. "Lord, ha' mercy!" she
said; "it'll sweep around th' Bend afore long, an'--an'"--and she ended
with a terror in her voice which told its own tale without other words.

The truth forced itself upon them all then. Women began to shriek and
men to pray, but, strange to say, the man whose life was at stake lay
silent, with ashen lips, about which the muscles were tensely drawn.

His dull eyes searched every group in a dead despair that was yet a
passion, in all its stillness.

"How long will it be," he asked slowly at last--"th' tide? Twenty
minutes?"

"Happen so," was the answer. "An', lad, lad! we conna help thee. We'n
tried our best, lad"--with sobs even from the uncouth fellow who spoke
"The