“Bail out! bail out!” shouted Job, suiting the action to the word.

But I could not bail just then, for as the moon went out and left us in total darkness, one faint, flying ray of light lit upon the face of the man I had gripped, who was now half lying, half floating in the bottom of the boat.

It was Leo.  Leo brought back by the wave—­back, dead or alive, from the very jaws of Death.

“Bail out! bail out!” yelled Job, “or we shall founder.”

I seized a large tin bowl with a handle to it, which was fixed under one of the seats, and the three of us bailed away for dear life.  The furious tempest drove over and round us, flinging the boat this way and that, the wind and the storm wreaths and the sheets of stinging spray blinded and bewildered us, but through it all we worked like demons with the wild exhilaration of despair, for even despair can exhilarate.  One minute! three minutes! six minutes!  The boat began to lighten, and no fresh wave swamped us.  Five minutes more, and she was fairly clear.  Then, suddenly, above the awful shriekings of the hurricane came a duller, deeper roar.  Great Heavens!  It was the voice of breakers!

At that moment the moon began to shine forth again—­this time behind the path of the squall.  Out far across the torn bosom of the ocean shot the ragged arrows of her light, and there, half a mile ahead of us, was a white line of foam, then a little space of open-mouthed blackness, and then another line of white.  It was the breakers, and their roar grew clearer and yet more clear as we sped down upon them like a swallow.  There they were, boiling up in snowy spouts of spray, smiting and gnashing together like the gleaming teeth of hell.

“Take the tiller, Mahomed!” I roared in Arabic.  “We must try and shoot them.”  At the same moment I seized an oar, and got it out, motioning to Job to do likewise.

Mahomed clambered aft, and got hold of the tiller, and with some difficulty Job, who had sometimes pulled a tub upon the homely Cam, got out his oar.  In another minute the boat’s head was straight on to the ever-nearing foam, towards which she plunged and tore with the speed of a racehorse.  Just in front of us the first line of breakers seemed a little thinner than to the right or left—­there was a cap of rather deeper water.  I turned and pointed to it.

“Steer for your life, Mahomed!” I yelled.  He was a skilful steersman, and well acquainted with the dangers of this most perilous coast, and I saw him grip the tiller, bend his heavy frame forward, and stare at the foaming terror till his big round eyes looked as though they would start out of his head.  The send of the sea was driving the boat’s head round to starboard.  If we struck the line of breakers fifty yards to starboard of the gap we must sink.  It was a great field of twisting, spouting waves.  Mahomed planted his foot against the seat before him, and, glancing at him, I saw his brown toes spread out like a hand with the weight he put upon them as he took the strain of the tiller.  She came round a bit, but not enough.  I roared to Job to back water, whilst I dragged and laboured at my oar.  She answered now, and none too soon.