looked up in terror and amazement at the masses of water which hung above them.  Once or twice waves actually broke over the vessel, crashing and roaring down the deck, and washing hither and thither until gradually absorbed between the planks or drained away through the scupper-holes.  On each of these occasions the poor rotten vessel would lurch and shiver in every plank, as if with a foreknowledge of her fate.

It was a dreary night for all on board.  As long as there was light they could at least see what danger was to be faced, but now the barque was plunging and tossing through an inky obscurity.  With a wild scooping motion she was hurled up on the summit of a great wave, and thence she shot down into the black gulf beyond with such force that when checked by meeting the next billow her whole fabric jarred from truck to keelson.  There were two seamen at the wheel and two at the relieving tackles, yet it was all that they could do among the wild commotion to keep her steady.

No one thought of going below.  It was better to see and know the worst than to be shut up in a coffin where one could not stretch out a hand to help one’s self.  Once Captain Hamilton Miggs clawed his way along the rail to where the Girdlestones were standing.

“Look there!” he roared, pointing to windward.

It was difficult to turn one’s face straight to the wild rush of wind and spray and hail.  Shading their eyes, they peered into the storm.  Right in the heart of it, and apparently not more than a couple of hundred yards from the barque, was a lurid glare of ruddy light, rising and falling with the sea, but advancing rapidly through it.  There was a bright central glowing spot, with smaller lights glimmering above and beside it.  The effect of the single glare of light against the inky darkness of the sea and sky would have made a study for a Turner.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a steamer,” the captain shouted.  It was only by great exertions that he could make himself audible above the shrieking of the wind and the dash of the waves.

“What do you think of it all?” Ezra asked.

“Very bad,” Miggs answered.  “Couldn’t be worse;” and with that he clawed his way aft again, grasping every stanchion or shroud on his way, like a parroquet in a cage.

The clouds above broke somewhat towards morning, but there was no sign of abatement in the tempest.  Here and there through the rifts the glimmer of the stars might be seen, and once the pale moon gleamed through the storm wreath.  The dawn broke cheerless and dreary, disclosing the great turmoil of endless slate-coloured waves and the solitary little barque, with her rag of canvas, like a broken-winged seabird, staggering to the south.

Even the Girdlestones had noticed that, whereas towards the commencement of the storm it had been a rare occurrence for a wave to break over the ship, the decks were now continually knee-deep in water, and there was a constant splashing and crashing as the seas curled over the weather bulwark.  Miggs had already observed it, and conferred gravely with his mate on the point.