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“Lads,” he said, “we conna do this oursens. Run for help, Jem Coulter, an’ run wi’ thy might, fur it wunnot be so long afore th’ tide’ll flow.”

Up to this time the man on the sands had lain with closed eyes and set teeth, but when he heard this his eyes opened and he looked up.

“Eh!” he said, in that blind, stupid fashion. “What’s that theer tha’s sayin’ Mester?”

“Th’ tide,” blundered the speaker. “I wur tellin’ him to look sharp, that’s aw.”

The poor fellow moved restlessly.

“Aye! aye!” he said. “Look sharp–he mun do that. I didna think o’ th’ tide.” And he shut his eyes again with a faint groan.

They strove while the messenger was gone; and they strove when he returned with assistance; they strove with might and main, until not a man among them had the strength of a child, and the boldest of them were blanching with a fearful, furtive excitement none dared to show. A crowd had gathered round by this time–men willing and anxious to help, women suggesting new ideas and comforting the wounded man in rough, earnest style; children clinging to their mothers’ gowns and looking on terror-stricken. Suddenly, in the midst of one of their mightiest efforts, a sharp childish voice piped out from the edge of an anxious group a brief warning that struck terror to every heart that beat among them.

“Eh! Mesters!” it said, “th’ tide’s creepin’ up a bit.”

The men looked round with throbbing pulses, the women looked also, and one of the younger ones broke into a low cry. “Lord, ha’ mercy!” she said; “it’ll sweep around th’ Bend afore long, an’–an'”–and she ended with a terror in her voice which told its own tale without other words.

The truth forced itself upon them all then. Women began to shriek and men to pray, but, strange to say, the man whose life was at stake lay silent, with ashen lips, about which the muscles were tensely drawn.

His dull eyes searched every group in a dead despair that was yet a passion, in all its stillness.

“How long will it be,” he asked slowly at last–“th’ tide? Twenty minutes?”

“Happen so,” was the answer. “An’, lad, lad! we conna help thee. We’n tried our best, lad”–with sobs even from the uncouth fellow who spoke “Theer is na one on us but ‘ud leave a limb behind to save thee, but theer is na time–theer is na”–

One deep groan and he lay still again–quite still. God knows what weight of mortal agony and desperate terror crushed him in that dead, helpless pause.

Then his eyes opened as before.

“I’ve thowt o’ deein’,” he said with a catch of his breath. “I’ve thowt o’ deein’, an’ I’ve wondered how it wur an’ what it felt like. I never thowt o’ deein’ like this here.” Another pause and then–

“Which o’ yo’ lads ‘ll tell my missus?”

“Ay! poor chap, poor chap!” wailed the women. “Who on ’em will?”

“Howd tha noise, wenches,” he said hoarsely. “Yo’ daze me. Theer is na time to bring her here. I’d ha’ liked to ha’ said a word to her. I’d ha’ liked to ha’ said one word; Jem Coulter”–raising his voice–“canst tha say it fur me?”

“Aye,” cried the man, choking as he spoke, “surely, surely.” And he knelt down.

“Tell her ‘at if it wur bad enow–this here–it wur not so bad as it mought ha’ been–fur me. I mought ha’ fun it worser. Tell her I’d like to ha’ said a word if I could–but I couldna. I’d like to ha’ heard her say one word, as happen she would ha’ said if she’d been here, an’ tell her ‘at if she had ha’ said it th’ tide mought ha’ comn an’ welcome–but she didna, an’ theer it stands.” And the sob that burst from his breast was like the sob of a death-stricken child. “Happen”–he said next–“happen one o’ yo’ women-foak con say a bit o’ a prayer–yo’re not so fur fro’ safe sand but yo’ can reach it–happen one o’ yo’ ha’ a word or two as yo’ could say–such like as yo’ teach yo’re babbies.”