reeled--resisted an
instant, then submitted to her fate, crumbled against the pitiless
wall like paper, and thereafter was lost to sight.

This dramatic and terrible scene had held the attention of the
onlookers--once more they searched for the tiny raft. It was nearing
the lake wall at another furious point of contact. An innumerable
crowd spread like a black robe over the shore, waiting to see the tiny
float strike.

A hush fell over every voice. Each soul was solemn as if facing the
Maker of the world. Out on the point, just where the doomed sailors
seemed like to strike, there was a little commotion. A tiny figure was
seen perched on one of the spiles. Each wave, as it towered above him,
seemed ready to sweep him away, but each time he bowed his head and
seemed to sweep through the gray wall. He was a negro, and he held a
rope in his hands.

As they comprehended his danger the crowd cheered him, but in the
thunder of the surf no human voice could avail. The bold negro could
not cry out, he could only motion; but the brave man on the raft saw
his purpose--he was alone with the shipwrecked ones.

In they came, lifted and hurled by a prodigious swell. They struck the
wall just beneath the negro and disappeared beneath the waves.

All seemed over, and some of the spectators fell weeping; others
turned away.

Suddenly the indomitable commander of the raft rose, then his
companions, and then it was perceived that he had bound them all to
the raft.

The negro flung his rope and one man caught at it, but it was swept
out of reach on a backward-leaping billow. Again they came in, their
white, strained, set faces and wild eyes turned to the intrepid
rescuer. Again they struck, and this time the negro caught and held
one of the sailors, held him while the foam fell away, and the
succeeding wave swept him over the spiles to safety. Again the
resolute man flung his noose and caught the second sailor, whose rope
was cut by the leader, the captain, who was last to be saved.

As the negro came back, dragging his third man over the wall, a mighty
cry went up, a strange, faint, multitudinous cry, and the negro was
swallowed up in the multitude.

Mason turned to Rose and spoke: "Sometimes men seem to be worth
while!"

ELIZABETH STEVENSON GASKELL

(1810-1865)

[Illustration: ELIZABETH S. GASKELL]

Critics agree in placing the novels of Mrs. Gaskell on a level with
the works of Jane Austen and Charlotte Bront