Rockets from
the cliff that overlooked the wreck could not reach her in that fierce
wind; the life-boat, when it arrived from Berwick, could not live in the
broken water near to her. All was done that man could do to rescue the
perishing men in that hapless vessel; but that "all" in the end amounted
to just nothing. Helpless, the watchers listened with sick hearts to the
cries of her doomed crew and to the deep baying of a great hound that
was on board the doomed ship; helpless, they gazed in impotent agony at
the despairing signals made. In the morning she was still there, but the
cries were fainter, the faces seen fewer, the vessel more often buried
under breaking seas. Then the cries ceased. And when daylight came a
second time, where the hull had been there was now but white, raging
water, and seas that spouted high in air from a black rock that showed
its cruel head at intervals. And of the crew there was found no sign.
Only to and fro on the shore there ran a great white dog, that would let
no man approach it, that would take no food from strange hands. Day and
night, like a lost spirit, to and fro between Eyemouth and St. Abb's
Head trotted the great white hound, never resting. And ever when a sail
hove in sight, or a steamship passed near in, he would run hurriedly to
the farthest projecting point, and throwing back his head, wail
piteously for the drowned sailors, his friends.
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