Knowing he could not reach the boat even were it still on the davits,
Dan left the stateroom and half led, half carried the girl toward the
stern.
The forward deck was now a seething inferno. The foremast, a pillar of
thin name, flickered like a pennon of gold until it broke in the middle
and sent up a shower of sparks. The shrouds and ratlines which went
with it had barred the black heavens with ruddy lines. From all the
openings dull red clouds rolled and bellied skyward, cloud upon cloud;
the funnel spouted like a blast furnace.
But the vessel slowly, but very surely, was falling off the wind; it
would soon blow astern. The shelter of the after deck-house would
serve for a while, perhaps until some vessel, attracted by the terrible
light, would bring them succor. Dan placed the girl behind this steel
structure and then, running to the taffrail, leaned far out and called
to the boats. But the roar of the flames drowned his cries, and the
boats, which had moved out to windward, could not see him. Foot by
foot crept the fire; but the stiff wind which finally came over the
stern did its work well, and the red avalanche began to slant toward
the bow. This meant respite. But he knew that at the very best it
could be only a respite, and short at that.
Again and again and again he called for the boats, until his voice grew
husky and faint.
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