The skipper of the yacht and a couple of hands rushed below.  A part of the bow had been carried away and a small hole made just above the waterline, through which the water spurted whenever she encountered a large wave.  It was enough to waterlog her and sink her in such a sea.  The two seamen grasped whatever bedding was in reach below, rammed it into the opening, and held it there.  The skipper ran on deck, and by the aid of the men hauled out a couple of sails and dropped them over the bow.  These would aid in keeping out the water.  They could float now, but where were they going?  “Going ashore,” said Mavick, grimly.  And so they were.

“Was there a panic on board?” it was asked afterwards.  Not exactly.  Among well-bred people a panic is never good form.  But there were white faces and trembling knees and anxious looks.  The steamer was coming towards them, and all eyes were fixed on that rather than on the rocks of the still distant shore.

The most striking incident of the moment—­it seemed so to some of those who looked back upon it—­was a singular test of character, or rather of woman’s divination of character.  Carmen instinctively flew to Jack and grasped and held his arm.  She knew, without stopping to reason about it, that he would unhesitatingly imperil his life to save that of any woman.  Whatever judgment is passed upon Jack, this should not be forgotten.  And Miss Tavish; to whom did she fly in this peril?  To the gallant Major?  No.  To the cool and imperturbable Mavick, who was as strong and sinewy as he was cool?  No.  She ran without hesitation to Van Dam, and clung to him, recognizing instinctively, with the woman’s feeling, the same quality that Jack had.  There are such men, who may have no great gifts, but who will always fight rather than run under fire, and who will always protect a woman.

Mavick saw all this, and understood it perfectly, and didn’t object to it at the time—­but he did not forget it.

The task of rescue was not easy in that sea and wind, but it was dexterously done.  The steamer approached and kept at a certain distance on the windward side.  A boat was lowered, and a line was brought to the yacht, which was soon in tow with a stout cable hitched to the steamer’s anchor windlass.

It was all done with much less excitement than appeared from the telegraphic accounts, and while the party were being towed home the peril seemed to have been exaggerated, and the affair to look like an ordinary sea incident.  But the skipper said that it was one escape in a hundred.

The captain of the steamer raised his hat gravely in reply to the little cheer from the yacht, when Carmen and Miss Tavish fluttered their handkerchiefs towards him.  The only chaff from the steamer was roared out by a fat Boston man, who made a funnel of his hands and shouted, “The race is not always to the swift.”