there was the light high up behind him, burning clearly and strongly,
while the vessel was breaking to pieces below. 'It is a lure,' he
said, indignantly, 'a false light.' In his wrath he spoke aloud;
suddenly a shape came out of the darkness, cast him down, and
tightened a grasp around his throat. 'I know you,' he muttered,
strangling. One hand was free, he drew out his pistol, and fired; the
shape fell back. It was old Fog. Wounded? Yes, badly.

Waring found his tinder-box, made a blaze of driftwood, and bound up
the bleeding arm and leg roughly. 'Wretch,' he said, 'you set that
light.'

Old Fog nodded.

'Can anything be done for the men on board? Answer or I'll end your
miserable life at once; I don't know why, indeed, I have tried to save
it.'

Old Fog shook his head. 'Nothing,' he murmured; 'I know every inch of
the reef and shore.'

Another flash revealed for an instant the doomed vessel, and Waring
raged at his own impotence as he strode to and fro, tears of anger and
pity in his eyes. The old man watched him anxiously. 'There are not
more than six of them,' he said; 'it was only a small schooner.'

'Silence!' shouted Waring; 'each man of the six now suffering and
drowning is worth a hundred of such as you!'

'That may be,' said Fog.