"Aye, ye bes saved," answered the skipper, more than ever confused by
the astonishing clearness and music of her voice and the fearless
simplicity of her question. He scrambled to his feet, holding to the
stump of the topmast with his right arm (for the spar whipped and sprang
to the impact of every sea upon the hull), and looked at his men on the
edge of the cliff. He saw that they were shouting to him, but the wind
was in their teeth and so not a word of their bellowing reached him. By
signals and roarings down the wind he got the order to them to bend a
heavy line on to the shore end of one of the light lines attached to his
waist. He dragged the hawser in with some difficulty, made it fast to
the cross-trees, and then rigged a kind of running boatswain's chair
from a section of the loose rigging. He made the end of one line fast
just below the loop of the chair on the hawser. The second line was
around his chest and the ends of both were in the hands of the men
ashore. Without a word he cut the girl's lashings, lifted her in his
arms and took his seat. He waved his left arm and the lads on the cliff
put their backs into the pull.

The passage was a terrific experience though the distance between the
cross-trees and the top of the cliff was not great. Neither the girl nor
the skipper spoke a word. He held her tight and she hid her face against
his shoulder. Fifteen of the men, under the orders of Bill Brennen, held
the shore-end of the hawser. When the mast swung toward the cliff they
took up the slack, thus saving the two from being dashed against the
face of the rock, by rushing backward. When the mast whipped to seaward
they advanced to the edge of the cliff. Five others hauled on each of
the lines whenever the hawser was nearly taut, and paid out and pulled
in with the slackening and tightening of the larger rope. But even so,
the sling in which the skipper and the girl hung was tossed about