companion without so much as a glance at his rescuer, reached the deck with a yell, and started forward on the run without pausing to lay a hand on the life-line.  His course was brief.  The list of the deck carried him to the starboard.  His foot caught in a splinter of shattered bulwark and he pitched overboard, head first and with terrific force, to the black rocks and surging seas.  That was the last time Dan Cormick was seen alive—­and the sight of him springing from the companion and plunging to his death struck horror and amazement to the souls of the men on the cliff.

Below, the skipper was doing his utmost to still the tumult and drag the men to safety.  They were the men of his harbor—­a part of his equipment in life—­and therefore he worked like a hero to save them from themselves and one another.  His young brother was safe on the cliff; so his fine efforts were not inspired by any grander emotion than that felt by the shopkeeper who fights fire in the protection of his uninsured stock-in-trade.  There were men below whom he needed, but none whom he loved even with the ordinary affection of man for humanity.  The skipper yanked the men to the steps as fast as he could get hold of them, dragged them up to the level of the deck, and left them sprawled.  All were breathless; some were cut and bruised; Nick Leary’s left cheek had been laid open from eye to jaw in some way.  The shouting and yelling were now over, and several husky fellows, ashamed of the recent panic, helped the skipper at his work.  When the task of rescue was at last finished, the flooded cabin had given up three corpses besides that of the woman—­four corpses and a dozen wounded men.

The bodies of the wreckers were hauled up to the top of the cliff, amid prayers, curses and groans of distress.  The fellows on shore demanded to know who had killed them—­and why?  Knives were drawn.  The brother of one of the dead men swore that he was ready and eager to cut the heart out of the murderer.  The lads on the wreck caught something of all this; but it did not cool their desire to get ashore.  Those who had the use of their limbs swarmed up the foremast and crossed over to the cliff.  The first to step ashore was in grave danger for a half-minute; but he managed to throw some light on the thing that had taken place in the flooded cabin.  Others landed, the whole story was told and knives were returned to their sheaths.  The skipper, the seriously injured and the dead woman remained on the deck.  The skipper was in a black mood.  He knew his people well enough to see that this unfortunate affair would weaken his power among them.  They would say that the saints were against his enterprises and ambitions; that his luck was gone; that he was a bungler and so not fit to give orders to full-grown men.  He understood all this as if he could hear their grumbled words—­nay, as well as if he could read the very hearts of them.  He turned to Nick Leary.  Nick had already bandaged his face with a piece of sail-cloth.