Brown has the line in his hand, waiting for any signal touch from the ship: but the line sways limp in the surge.
Ten minutes.

The Lieutenant lights a fresh cigar, and paces up and down, smoking fiercely.
A quarter of an hour; and yet no response.

The moon is shining clearly now.

They can see her hatchways, the stumps of her masts, great tangles of rigging swaying and lashing down across her deck; but that delicate upper curve is becoming more ragged after every wave; and the tide is rising fast.
"There's a pull!" shouts Brown....

"No, there ain't ...