That smack was hove down, and her mainsail was held by the weight of water.

“I expect we must carry away something, but I’m going down to him.  Jump to the wheel, sir, and cast that lashing.  When I wave, shove it hard a-starboard.  That way, sir.  The men and I must manage forrad.  You must go below at once, Miss.  Jim, shove those bolts in.”

There was a shock, and Ferrier thought the mainsheet had parted; then three strongish seas hit the schooner until she shuddered and rolled under the immense burden.  It was a fearful risk, but the vessel freed herself and drove to the smack.  One man was hanging on over the starboard side which was hove up; the schooner swept on in cruel danger, and the skipper might well look stern and white.  “We sha’n’t save it,” he growled.  Then Ferrier groaned, “Oh, God,” for the keel of the smack at last heaved up, and she went down, down, slowly down, while her copper showed less and less, till the last fatal sea completed the work of wrath and ruin.

Ferrier felt that sensation of sickness which I have so often seen shown by strong men.  The skipper said:  “We’ll heave her to again.  You’d better get below.  Your pluck’s all right, but an unlucky one might catch you, and you ain’t got the knack of watching for an extra drop o’ water same as us.”

Lewis Ferrier went below and found all his friends looking anxious.  Indeed, the clamour was deafening, and the bravest man or woman had good reason for feeling serious.  Marion Dearsley looked at Ferrier with parted lips, and he could see that she was unable to speak; but her eyes made the dread inquiry which he expected.  He bowed his head, and the girl covered her face with a tearing sob:  “Oh, the fatherless!  O Lord, holy and true, how long?  Bless the fatherless!” The poor prostrate ladies in the further cabin added their moanings to that dreadful wail, and you may guess that no very cheerful company were gathered in that dim saloon.  Of course they would have been swamped had not the skylights been covered in, and the low light was oppressive.  At six in the morning the skipper came with a grin and beckoned Mr. Blair into the crew’s cabin.

“I pretended to laugh, sir,” said he, “but it’s not quite laughing now.  The fog’s coming over, and we’re just going into cloud after cloud of it.  Don’t let either of the ladies peep up again on any account.  I’m afeared o’ nothing but collision, but it’s regular blind man’s holiday when one o’ them comes down.”

“I’ll see my sister right, Freeman, and I’ll come and try if I can have a peep from your ladder.”  Then Blair saw a thing which always seems more impressive than anything else that can be witnessed at sea—­except, perhaps, a snowstorm.  A mysterious portent came rolling onward; afar off it looked like a pale grey wall of inconceivable height, but as it drew nearer, the wall resolved itself into a wild array of columns, and eddies, and whirlpools, and great full-bosomed clouds,