After the sails were on her we gathered at the starboard rail to watch the shore.  There the hills ran into inky blackness, as the horizon sometimes merges into a thunder squall.  A dense white steam came from the creek bed within the arroyo.  The surges beat on the shore louder than the ordinary, and the foam, even in these day hours, seemed to throw up a faint phosphorescence.  Frequent earthquakes oscillated the landscape.  We watched, I do not know for what, our eyes straining into the murk of the island.  Nobody thought of the chest, which lay on the cabin table aft.  I contributed maliciously my bit to their fear.

“These volcanic islands sometimes sink entirely,” I suggested, “and in that case we’d be carried down by the suction.”

It was intended merely to increase their uneasiness, but, strangely enough, after a few moments it ended by imposing itself on my own fears.  I began to be afraid the island would sink, began to watch for it, began to share the fascinated terror of these men.

The suspense after a time became unbearable, for while the portent—­ whether physical or moral we were too far under its influence to distinguish—­grew momentarily, our own souls did not expand in due correspondence.  We talked of towing, of kedging out, of going to any extreme, even to small boats.  Then just as we were about to move toward some accomplishment, a new phenomenon chained our attention to the shore.

In the mouth of the arroyo appeared a red glow.  A moment later a wave of lava, white-hot, red, iridescent, cooling to a black crust cracked in incandescence, rolled majestically out over the grassy plain.  Each instant it grew in volume, until the ravine must have been flowing half full.

Before its scorching the grasses even at the edge of the sea were smoking, and our camp had already burst into flames.  We had to shield our faces against the heat, and the wooden railing under our hands was growing warm.

Pulz turned an ashy countenance toward us.

“My God,” he screamed.  “What’s going to happen when she hits the sea?”

She hit the sea, and immediately a great cloud of steam arose, and the hissing as of a thousand serpents.  We felt the strong suction under our keel, and staggered under the jerk of the ship’s cable as she swung toward the beach.  The paint was beginning to crackle along the rail.  We could see nothing for the scalding white veil that enveloped us; we could hear nothing for the roar of steam, the bombardment of explosions, and the crash of thunder; but our nostrils were assaulted by a most unearthly medley of smells.

“Hell’s loose,” growled Thrackles.

We were clinging hard as the ship reeled.  Huge surges were racing in from seaward, growing larger with each successive billow.

Handy Solomon raised his head, listened intently, and struck his forehead.

“Wind,” he screamed at the top of his voice, and jumped for the halliards.