Harry anxiously walked the quarter deck; it would be certain destruction if they remained in that position till night should overtake them.  The boy called to the men, asking what was to be done; but they in terror could do nothing but lament their situation, calling out against the captain for leaving them in such a state.  Harry hesitated; what was done must be done speedily.  To take in sail was his first thought; then, with the assistance of the clumsy seamen, he rolled out a small cannon-piece, and for one long hour did he keep up an incessant fire.  The coming storm was now plainly discernible; the distant rolling of thunder was heard, the sea was agitated, and occasionally a flaw would shake the rattlings.  They were in momentary expectation that the storm would burst upon them.  Harry had left his firing, and ascending the hurricane deck, stood with folded arms, as if bracing himself to meet the foe.  It is coming in all its fury! kind heaven! the fog lifts! it rolls itself away as it were a great scroll.  The ink-black heavens are fearfully majestic, seen in the lightning’s lurid glare.  A speck! yes, ’t is the boats! do they see them?  Once more the boy flies to the cannon, not pausing to see if they are nearing the ship; his heart beats wildly; ’tis their only chance for life! the hurricane has burst upon them! the enraged deep responds loudly to the deafening roar!  Once again the feeble voice of the cannon is doing its best to be heard, when lo! the flash mingling with the forked lightnings which play in the rigging, reveals the men, as they come tumbling over the ship’s side!  They are saved! saved by that noble boy, who does not know of their approach, so intent is he upon his exertions, until Sampson clasps him in his arms, and a “God bless you!” is upon the lips of every man, save the captain, who, having received a slight wound from a harpoon, and irritated by their bad luck, utters a curse which vies in blackness with that dreadful night.

“Down your helm!” shouted the captain; “hard down your helm!” The order was hardly given, when they were thrown on their beam ends; down, down they went, as if never to rise again, completely engulfed in the dark abyss!  The boy, where is he? down in the hold, his arm made fast to the collar of old Neptune, that they may go down together; he kneels, his mother’s gift, the bible, in his hand, calmly awaiting his time.  Nature seems terrified, yet that boy knows no fear.  Crash succeeds crash; ah, who can describe the scene!  He alone who has stood upon the frail plank, which only separates him from death.  Again a terrific crash,—­their masts have gone by the board!  It would seem that the enraged billows were bent upon their destruction.  Still their stout bark is unwilling to give up, and trembling from stem to stern, she clings to life, nobly resisting the gigantic attacks of the storm-king, who, having fought with terrific fierceness through the livelong night, puts on a less demon-like expression as his strength is well nigh spent, and the gray dawn sees no traces of the despoiler, who perhaps has slain thousands, save the swelling surges, which angrily gaze as if disappointed of their prey.