So they shot past—past the crowd who gazed breathlessly at the miracle, past the summerhouse, but only a few yards. Then the man at the helm turned the boat suddenly like an eagle in its flight; and the six men took to their oars, at one stroke—and “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”—the oars were withdrawn again, and the boat lay alongside the balcony, over which and over the boat an immense wave reared its foaming crest towards the bank, and there breaking threw its spray up into the burning trees, covering the breathless lookers-on with a cloud of moisture.
And as the cloud dispersed, they saw in the dim light of the decaying fire that the summerhouse was gone, and there was only left a shadowy boat that vanished into the darkness.
They drew a long breath then, as if from a single oppressed spirit relieved from a weight of fear. And “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” resounded as if from a single throat, rising above even the howling storm.
The boat might disappear in the darkness, but they knew that the man sitting at the helm knew what he was about, and the six men who were with him knew what they were about; and it would return in safety, carrying the rescued from storm and flood.
XV
The setting sun no longer stood high above the hills. In the magic glow were shining the calm pools of water which covered the immense semicircle between the Golmberg and Wissow Head. The slanting golden rays shone dazzlingly in Reinhold’s eyes, as he steered his boat from the lake into the broad gulf close by the White Dune, against whose steep sides the long incoming waves were washing, while the boat glided over its broad surface, and the blades of the oars as they rose and sank in regular cadence almost touched the edge.
The eyes of the rowers were turned towards the dune as they glided by, while the scene of deliverance on the night of the storm must have recurred to every man’s memory, but no one spoke a word. Not because it would have been a breach of discipline. They knew that the Captain would always allow talk that was to the purpose at the right time, even when as today he was in full uniform, with the Iron Cross on his broad breast; but he had pulled his cocked hat low down upon his forehead, and if he occasionally raised his eyes to see the course he was steering, they did not look gloomy—they had never seen him look gloomy yet, any more than they had ever heard a bad word from his mouth—but very grave and sad. They would not disturb the Captain’s meditations.
Grave and sad meditations—graver and sadder than the honest fellows could imagine or comprehend.
What to them were the two people whom they had rescued from death on this sand-hill, with untold efforts and at the repeated risk of their own lives; what were they to them but a couple more fellow-creatures, saved as a matter of duty, and added to the others whom they had already saved that day? As to how Count Golm and the young lady had got there, and the relation in which they stood to each other—what did they care about that? But he!
He had shuddered when he found the brilliant Carla von Wallbach, whom he had seen a few days before flirting and coquetting in the light of the chandeliers, in the drawing-room at Warnow—now cowering on the storm-beaten dune, a picture of utter misery, her clothes soaked through with wet, her tender limbs shaken by icy cold, half out of her senses with terror, and hardly resembling a human creature; as he carried her to the boat, and at the moment when he laid her down, she woke from her stupor, and recognising him, shrieked wildly: “Save me from him! Save me!” and clung terrified to him—a stranger—as a child might cling to his mother, so that he had to use force to free himself!
The Count was in a hardly less pitiable condition, when two of the men carried him into the boat and laid him down near Carla; but then he suddenly started up, and at the risk of falling overboard staggered to the bow of the boat, and there sat lost in gloomy meditation, taking no notice of anything that passed, till they had worked their way to the Pölitz’s farm, and prepared to take the poor wretches there into the boat through the window of the attic in which they had taken refuge. Then he had sprung to his feet, and shrieked like a madman that he would not be packed in together with those people! he would not! and had laid violent hands on the men, till he was cowed by the threat that they would tie his hands if he did not implicitly obey the Captain’s orders; and then, covering his face with his hands, he had devoured his wrath in silence.
There was the attic, there was the window opening—they had been obliged to tear
