and tumult of wind and wave.  It was generally a woman with a child in her arms who so employed herself.  As the strain upon the cable became greater, and the ground on which they strove more uneven, every hand was needed to hold and push, and all those women who were unencumbered held by the dear rope on which so many lives were depending.  On they came, a long line of human beings, black against the ruddy sunset sky.  As they came near Sylvia, a woman cried out,—­

‘Dunnot stand idle, lass, but houd on wi’ us; there’s many a bonny life at stake, and many a mother’s heart a-hangin’ on this bit o’ hemp.  Tak’ houd, lass, and give a firm grip, and God remember thee i’ thy need.’

Sylvia needed no second word; a place was made for her, and in an instant more the rope was pulling against her hands till it seemed as though she was holding fire in her bare palms.  Never a one of them thought of letting go for an instant, though when all was over many of their hands were raw and bleeding.  Some strong, experienced fishermen passed a word along the line from time to time, giving directions as to how it should be held according to varying occasions; but few among the rest had breath or strength enough to speak.  The women and children that accompanied them ran on before, breaking down the loose stone fences, so as to obviate delay or hindrance; they talked continually, exhorting, encouraging, explaining.  From their many words and fragmentary sentences, Sylvia learnt that the vessel was supposed to be a Newcastle smack sailing from London, that had taken the dangerous inner channel to save time, and had been caught in the storm, which she was too crazy to withstand; and that if by some daring contrivance of the fishermen who had first seen her the cable had not been got ashore, she would have been cast upon the rocks before this, and ’all on board perished’.

‘It were dayleet then,’ quoth one woman; ’a could see their faces, they were so near.  They were as pale as dead men, an’ one was prayin’ down on his knees.  There was a king’s officer aboard, for I saw t’ gowd about him.’

‘He’d maybe come from these hom’ard parts, and be comin’ to see his own folk; else it’s no common for king’s officers to sail in aught but king’s ships.’

‘Eh! but it’s gettin’ dark!  See there’s t’ leeghts in t’ houses in t’ New Town!  T’ grass is crispin’ wi’ t’ white frost under out feet.  It’ll be a hard tug round t’ point, and then she’ll be gettin’ into still waters.’

One more great push and mighty strain, and the danger was past; the vessel—­or what remained of her—­was in the harbour, among the lights and cheerful sounds of safety.  The fishermen sprang down the cliff to the quay-side, anxious to see the men whose lives they had saved; the women, weary and over-excited, began to cry.  Not Sylvia, however; her fount of tears had been exhausted earlier in the day:  her principal feeling was of gladness and high rejoicing that they were saved who had been so near to death not half an hour before.