Unable to comprehend what was going on, I raised my head above my companion ladder, just at the critical moment when the vessels were grappled together.  The shrieks of the women, the shouts and oaths of the men, and the barking of the dogs in either ship, aided the dense darkness of the night in producing a most awful and stunning effect.

“What is the matter?” I gasped out.  “What is the reason of this dreadful confusion?”

The captain was raging like a chafed bull, in the grasp of several frantic women, who were clinging, shrieking, to his knees.

With great difficulty I persuaded the women to accompany me below.  The mate hurried off with the cabin light upon the deck, and we were left in total darkness to await the result.

A deep, strange silence fell upon my heart.  It was not exactly fear, but a sort of nerving of my spirit to meet the worst.  The cowardly behaviour of my companions inspired me with courage.  I was ashamed of their pusillanimity and want of faith in the Divine Providence.  I sat down, and calmly begged them to follow my example.

An old woman, called Williamson, a sad reprobate, in attempting to do so, set her foot within the fender, which the captain had converted into a repository for empty glass bottles; the smash that ensued was echoed by a shriek from the whole party.

“God guide us,” cried the ancient dame; “but we are going into eternity.  I shall be lost; my sins are more in number than the hairs of my head.”  This confession was followed by oaths and imprecations too blasphemous to repeat.

Shocked and disgusted at her profanity, I bade her pray, and not waste the few moments that might be hers in using oaths and bad language.

“Did you not hear the crash?” said she.

“I did; it was of your own making.  Sit down and be quiet.”

Here followed another shock, that made the vessel heave and tremble; and the dragging of the anchor increased the uneasy motion which began to fill the boldest of us with alarm.

“Mrs. Moodie, we are lost,” said Margaret Williamson, the youngest daughter of the old woman, a pretty girl, who had been the belle of the ship, flinging herself on her knees before me, and grasping both my hands in hers.  “Oh, pray for me! pray for me!  I cannot, I dare not, pray for myself; I was never taught a prayer.”  Her voice was choked with convulsive sobs, and scalding tears fell in torrents from her eyes over my hands.  I never witnessed such an agony of despair.  Before I could say one word to comfort her, another shock seemed to lift the vessel upwards.  I felt my own blood run cold, expecting instantly to go down; and thoughts of death, and the unknown eternity at our feet, flitted vaguely through my mind.

“If we stay here, we shall perish,” cried the girl, springing to her feet.  “Let us go on deck, mother, and take our chance with the rest.”