Then there came a great laugh of thunder close above, and the black cloud dropped like a curtain round us:  the squall had broken.

“Cut it off, Dan! quick!” I cried.  “Let it alone,” said he, snapping together his jack-knife; “it’s as good as a best bower-anchor.  Now I’ll take the tiller, Georgie.  Strong little hand,” said he, bending so that I didn’t see his face.  “And lucky it’s good as strong.  It’s saved us all.—­My God, Georgie! where’s Faith?”

I turned.  There was no Faith in the boat.  We both sprang to our feet, and so the tiller swung round and threw us broadside to the wind, and between the dragging mast and the centre-board drowning seemed too good for us.

“You’ll have to cut it off,” I cried again; but he had already ripped half through the canvas and was casting it loose.

At length he gave his arm a toss.  With the next moment, I never shall forget the look of horror that froze Dan’s face.

“I’ve thrown her off!” he exclaimed.  “I’ve thrown her off!”

He reached his whole length over the boat, I ran to his side, and perhaps our motion impelled it, or perhaps some unseen hand; for he caught at an end of rope, drew it in a second, let go and clutched at a handful of the sail, and then I saw how it had twisted round and swept poor little Faith over, and she had swung there in it like a dead butterfly in a chrysalis.  The lightnings were slipping down into the water like blades of fire everywhere around us, with short, sharp volleys of thunder, and the waves were more than I ever rode this side of the bar before or since, and we took in water every time our hearts beat; but we never once thought of our own danger while we bent to pull dear little Faith out of hers; and that done, Dan broke into a great hearty fit of crying that I’m sure he’d no need to be ashamed of.  But it didn’t last long; he just up and dashed off the tears and set himself at work again, while I was down on the floor rubbing Faith.  There she lay like a broken lily, with no life in her little white face, and no breath, and maybe a pulse and maybe not.  I couldn’t hear a word Dan said, for the wind; and the rain was pouring through us.  I saw him take out the oars, but I knew they’d do no good in such a chop, even if they didn’t break; and pretty soon he found it so, for he drew them in and began to untie the anchor-rope and wind it round his waist.  I sprang to him.

“What are you doing, Dan?” I exclaimed.

“I can swim, at least,” he answered.

“And tow us?—­a mile?  You know you can’t!  It’s madness!”

“I must try.  Little Faith will die, if we don’t get ashore.”

“She’s dead now, Dan.”

“What!  No, no, she isn’t.  Faith isn’t dead.  But we must get ashore.”

“Dan,” I cried, clinging to his arm, “Faith’s only one.  But if you die so,—­and you will!—­I shall die too.”

“You?”

“Yes; because, if it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have been here at all.”