ack by the
wind. All we could do was to hang there, tasting the copper of excitement,
waiting for these different forces to adjust themselves. Inch by inch we
crept forward: foot by foot we made leeway. The intensest of the lava glow
worked its way from directly abeam to the quarter. By this we knew we must
be nearly opposite the cove. At once a new doubt sprang up in our minds.

A moment ago all the energy of our desires had gone up in the ambition to
avoid being cast on the beach. Now we saw that that was not enough. It was
necessary to squeeze around the point where lay the _Golden Horn_, in
order to avoid the fate that had overtaken her. Handy Solomon yelled
something at us. We could not hear, but our own knowledge told us what it
must be, and with one accord we turned to on the foresail. With the peak
of it hoisted we moved a trifle faster, though the schooner lay over at a
perilous angle. A moment later the fogs parted to show us the cliffs
looming startlingly near. There were the donkey engine and the works we
had constructed for wrecking--and there beside them, watching us
reflectively, stood Percy Darrow.

For ten minutes we stared at him fascinated, during which time the ship
laboured against the staggering winds, gained and lost in its buffeting
with the great surges. The breakers hurling themselves in wild abandon
against the rocks sent their back-wash of tumbling peaks to our very
bilges. The few remains of the _Golden Horn_, alternately drenched and
draining, seemed to picture to us our inevitable end.

I think we had all selected the same two points for our "bearings," a rock
and a drop of the cliff bolder than the ordinary. If the rock opened from
the cliff to eastward, we were lost; if it remained stationary, we were at
least holding our own; if it opened out to westward, we were saved. We
watched with a strained eagerness impossible to describe. At each
momentary gain or rebuff we uttered ejaculations. The Nigger mumbled
charms. Every once in a while one of us would snatch a glance to leeward
at the cruel, white waters, the whirl of eddies where the sea was beaten,
only to hurry back to the rock and the point of the cliff whence our
message of safety or destruction was to be flung. Once I looked up. Percy
Darrow was leaning gracefully against a stanchion, watching. His soft hat
was pulled over his eyes; he stroked softly his little moustache; I caught
the white puff of his cigarette. During the moment