CHAPTER II.

The breeze.

The spectacle on deck was appalling, and the sounds were appalling also.  The blast rushed by with a deep ground note which rose in pitch to a yell as the gust hurled itself through the cordage; each sea that came down seemed likely to be the last, but the sturdy yacht—­no floating chisel was she—­ran up the steep with a long, slow glide, and smashed into the black hollow with a sharp explosive sound.  Marion Dearsley might have been pardoned had she shown tremors as the flying mountains towered over the vessel.  Once a great black wall heaved up and doubled the intensity of the murky midnight by a sinister shade; there came a horrible silence, and then, with a loud bellow, the wall burst into ruin and crashed down on the ship in a torrent which seemed made up of a thousand conflicting streams.  The skipper silently dashed aft, flung his arms round Tom Lennard, and pinned him to the mast; Mr. Blair hung on, though he was drifted aft with his feet off the deck until he hung like a totally new description of flying signal; the ladies were drenched by the deluge which rushed down below, and the steward, when he saw the water swashing about over his cabin floor, exclaimed with discreet bitterness on the folly of inviting ladies to witness such a spectacle as a North Sea gale.

Tom observed:  “The grandeur is—­ah! fahscinating, but it’s rather damp grandeur.  It’s only grandeur fit for heroes.  Give me all my grandeur dry, if you please.”

“Yes, sir,” said the streaming skipper, “that was a near thing for you and me when she shipped it.  If I hadn’t been on the right side of the mast, both on us must have gone.”  Dawn rose slowly; the sky became blotched with snaky tints of dull yellow and livid grey; the gale kept on, and the schooner was hove-to to meet a sea of terrifying speed and height.  Two of the ladies were below, only craving to be left alone even by the stewardess; but the hideous fascination of the storm drew Marion Dearsley again and again, and she sheltered herself under the hatch, and looked with awe at the mad turmoil which could be seen astern.  Here and there, far up on the rushing sides of the foaming mountains, stray smacks hung like specks; the schooner shipped very little water now, and Ferrier kept the deck with some difficulty.  Events succeeded each other with the terrifying suddenness of shocking dreams, and when the skipper said, “Thank God for a good vessel under us, sir; many a good man has gone to meet his Maker this night,” Ferrier had quite a new sensation, which I might almost say approached terror, were I not writing about an absolutely courageous fellow.

Still the series of moving accidents went on.  A smack hove up under the stern of the schooner, and our skipper said gravely, “That Brixham man’s mad to try sailing that vessel.  If one puff comes any harder than the last, he’ll be hove down.”  Then the skipper turned to look forward, and Ferrier followed him.  A low, strangled moan made them both start and look down the companion.  Marion Dearsley, pointing with convulsively rigid arm, exclaimed, “The vessel—­oh, the poor men!”