And when I saw the boat fighting its way inch by inch into the cave I was sure that it was a vision, and that only my own wild beseeching of him to save me had made the face of Dugald Shaw arise before my dying eyes.  Dugald Shaw was still mending the boat on the shore of the cove, and this was a mocking phantom.

Only the warm human clasp of the arms that drew me into the boat made me believe in him.

The boat bobbed quietly in the eddy at the far end of the cave, while a wet, sobbing, choking heap clung to Dugald Shaw.  I clasped him about the neck and would not let him go, for fear that I should find myself alone again, perishing in the dark water.  My head was on his breast, and he was pressing back my wet hair with strong and tender hands.

What was this he was saying?  “My lassie, my little, little lassie!”

And no less incredible than this it was to feel his cheek pressed, very gently, against my hair—­

After a little my self-control came back to me.  I stopped my senseless childish crying, lifted my head and tried to speak.  I could only whisper, “You came, you came!”

“Of course I came!” he said huskily.  “There, don’t tremble so—­you are safe—­safe in my arms!”

After a while he lifted me into the stern and began to maneuver the boat out of the cave.  I suppose at another time I should have realized the peril of it.  The fierce flow through the archway all but swamped us, the current threatened to hurl us against the rocks, but I felt no fear.  He had come to save me, and he would.  All at once the dreadful shadow of the cavern was left behind, and the sunshine immersed my chilled body like a draught of wine.  I lay huddled in the stern, my cheek upon my hand, as he rowed swiftly across the cove and drove the boat upon the beach.

Everybody but Captain Magnus was assembled there, including Crusoe.  Crusoe it was who had given warning of my danger.  Like a wise little dog, when I ignored his admonitions he had run home.  At first his uneasiness and troubled barking had got no notice.  Once or twice the Scotchman, worried by his fretfulness, had ordered him away.  Then across his preoccupied mind there flashed a doubt.  He laid down his tools and spoke to the animal.  Instantly Crusoe dashed for the rocks, barking and crying with eagerness.  But the path was closed, the tide was hurrying in, and Crusoe whined pitiably as he crept back and crouched against the man who of course knew better than a little dog what must be done.

Then Mr. Shaw understood.  He snatched the painter of the boat and dragged it down the beach.  He was shoving off as Cookie, roused by Crusoe’s barking, appeared from the seclusion of his afternoon siesta.  To him were borne the Scotchman’s parting words: 

“Virginia Harding—­in the cave—­hot blankets—­may be drowning—­”

“And at dat,” said Cookie, relating his part in the near-tragedy with unction, “I jes’ natchully plumped right down on mah ma’ah bones and wrestled with de Lawd in prayah.”