“What were the guns from, then, Brown?” asks the Lieutenant of the head-boatman.

“Off the Chough and Crow, I thought, sir.  God grant not!”

“You thought, sir!” says the great man, willing to vent his vexation on some one. “Why didn’t you make sure?”

“Why, just look, Lieutenant,” says Brown, pointing into the “blank height of the dark;” “and I was on the pier too, and couldn’t see; but the look-out man here says—­” A shift of wind, a drift of cloud, and the moon flashes out a moment.—­“There she is, sir!”

Some three hundred yards out at sea lies a long curved black line, beautiful, severe, and still, amid those white wild leaping hills.  A murmur from the crowd, which swells into a roar, as they surge aimlessly up and down.

Another moment, and it is cut in two by a white line—­covered—­lost—­all hold their breaths.  No; the sea passes on, and still the black curve is there; enduring.

“A terrible big ship!”

“A Liverpool clipper, by the lines of her.”

“God help the poor passengers, then!” sobs a woman.  “They’re past our help:  she’s on her beam ends.”

“And her deck upright toward us.”

“Silence!  Out of the way you loafing long-shores!” shouts the Lieutenant.  “Brown—­the rockets!”

What though the Lieutenant be somewhat given to strong liquors, and stronger language?  He wears the Queen’s uniform; and what is more, he knows his work, and can do it; all make a silent ring while the fork is planted; the Lieutenant, throwing away the end of his cigar, kneels and adjusts the stick; Brown and his mates examine and shake out the coils of line.

Another minute, and the magnificent creature rushes forth with a triumphant roar, and soars aloft over the waves in a long stream of fire, defiant of the gale.

Is it over her?  No!  A fierce gust, which all but hurls the spectators to the ground; the fiery stream sweeps away to the left, in a grand curve of sparks, and drops into the sea.

“Try it again!” shouts the Lieutenant, his blood now up.  “We’ll see which will beat, wind or powder.”

Again a rocket is fixed, with more allowance for the wind; but the black curve has disappeared, and he must wait awhile.

“There it is again!  Fly swift and sure,” cries Elsley, “thou fiery angel of mercy, bearing the saviour-line!  It may not be too late yet.”

Full and true the rocket went across her; and “three cheers for the Lieutenant!” rose above the storm.

“Silence, lads!  Not so bad, though;” says he, rubbing his wet hands.  “Hold on by the line, and watch for a bite, Brown.”

Five minutes pass.  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.