Yes, look at the Spaniard!

On their left hand, as they broached-to, the wall of granite sloped down from the clouds toward an isolated peak of rock, some two hundred feet in height.  Then a hundred yards of roaring breaker upon a sunken shelf, across which the race of the tide poured like a cataract; then, amid a column of salt smoke, the Shutter, like a huge black fang, rose waiting for its prey; and between the Shutter and the land, the great galleon loomed dimly through the storm.

He, too, had seen his danger, and tried to broach-to.  But his clumsy mass refused to obey the helm; he struggled a moment, half hid in foam; fell away again, and rushed upon his doom.

“Lost! lost! lost!” cried Amyas madly, and throwing up his hands, let go the tiller.  Yeo caught it just in time.

“Sir! sir!  What are you at?  We shall clear the rock yet.”

“Yes!” shouted Amyas, in his frenzy; “but he will not!”

Another minute.  The galleon gave a sudden jar, and stopped.  Then one long heave and bound, as if to free herself.  And then her bows lighted clean upon the Shutter.

An awful silence fell on every English soul.  They heard not the roaring of wind and surge; they saw not the blinding flashes of the lightning; but they heard one long ear-piercing wail to every saint in heaven rise from five hundred human throats; they saw the mighty ship heel over from the wind, and sweep headlong down the cataract of the race, plunging her yards into the foam, and showing her whole black side even to her keel, till she rolled clean over, and vanished for ever and ever.

“Shame!” cried Amyas, hurling his sword far into the sea, “to lose my right, my right! when it was in my very grasp!  Unmerciful!”

A crack which rent the sky, and made the granite ring and quiver; a bright world of flame, and then a blank of utter darkness, against which stood out, glowing red-hot every mast, and sail, and rock, and Salvation Yeo as he stood just in front of Amyas, the tiller in his hand.  All red-hot, transfigured into fire; and behind, the black, black night.

* * * * *

A whisper, a rustling close beside him, and Brimblecombe’s voice said softly: 

“Give him more wine, Will; his eyes are opening.”

“Hey day?” said Amyas, faintly, “not past the Shutter yet!  How long she hangs in the wind!”

“We are long past the Shutter, Sir Amyas,” said Brimblecombe.

“Are you mad?  Cannot I trust my own eyes?”

There was no answer for awhile.

“We are past the Shutter, indeed,” said Cary, very gently, “and lying in the cove at Lundy.”

“Will you tell me that that is not the Shutter, and that the Devil’s-limekiln, and that the cliff—­that villain Spaniard only gone—­and that Yeo is not standing here by me, and Cary there forward, and—­why, by the by, where are you, Jack Brimblecombe, who were talking to me this minute?”