“I have her—­lend an hand, lads.”

Another man scrambled forward and together they clutched the object in the water.

“Look out, don’t pull so hard, you fool.  Blow me if there ain’t another and she’s got him by the hair.  So, steady, steady!”

A long heave from strong arms and the senseless form of Beatrice was on the gunwale.  Then they pulled up Geoffrey beside her, for they could not loose her desperate grip of his dark hair, and together rolled them into the boat.

“They’re dead, I doubt,” said the second man.

“Help turn ’em on their faces over the seat, so—­let the water drain from their innards.  It’s the only chance.  Now give me that sail to cover them—­so.  You’ll live yet, Miss Beatrice, you ain’t dead, I swear.  Old Eddard has saved you, Old Eddard and the good Goad together!”

Meanwhile the boat had been got round, and the men were rowing for Bryngelly as warm-hearted sailors will when life is at stake.  They all knew Beatrice and loved her, and they remembered it as they rowed.  The gloom was little hindrance to them for they could almost have navigated the coast blindfold.  Besides here they were sheltered by the reef and shore.

In five minutes they were round a little headland, and the lights of Bryngelly were close before them.  On the beach people were moving about with lanterns.

Presently they were there, hanging on their oars for a favourable wave to beach with.  At last it came, and they gave way together, running the large boat half out of the surf.  A dozen men plunged into the water and dragged her on.  They were safe ashore.

“Have you got Miss Beatrice?” shouted a voice.

“Ay, we’ve got her and another too, but I doubt they’re gone.  Where’s doctor?”

“Here, here!” answered a voice.  “Bring the stretchers.”

A stout thick-set man, who had been listening, wrapped up in a dark cloak, turned his face away and uttered a groan.  Then he followed the others as they went to work, not offering to help, but merely following.

The stretchers were brought and the two bodies laid upon them, face downwards and covered over.

“Where to?” said the bearers as they seized the poles.

“The Vicarage,” answered the doctor.  “I told them to get things ready there in case they should find her.  Run forward one of you and say that we are coming.”

The men started at a trot and the crowd ran after them.

“Who is the other?” somebody asked.

“Mr. Bingham—­the tall lawyer who came down from London the other day.  Tell policeman—­run to his wife.  She’s at Mrs. Jones’s, and thinks he has lost his way in the fog coming home from Bell Rock.”