and we scudded before it under bare poles,
flying for life.

Two men were at the wheel; the captain, lashed aft, was yelling out
orders which no one could understand, or, understanding, obey. The
night, as yet, was not particularly dark, and I shivered at sight of
the white, scared faces of the crew. They could do nothing more; in
the face of such a gale they were helpless as babies; those at the
wheel kept the ship's head straight by great effort, but beyond that,
everything was unavailing. Our fate was in the hands of God; He alone
could determine whether it should be life or death.

Once, above the fury of the storm, the howling of the wind, the
straining of the timber, there rose an awful shriek; and though the
tragedy was hidden from my sight, I knew it to be the cry of an unhappy
sailor in his death-agony. A huge wave, leaping like some ravenous
animal to the deck, had caught him and was gone; while the spirit of
the wind laughed in demoniacal glee as he was tossed from crest to
crest, the sport of the cruel billows.

The captain had seen, but was powerless to help. The schooner was but
the plaything of the waves, while to launch a boat--ah, how the
storm-fiends would have laughed at the attempt! So leaving the hapless
sailor to his fate, we drove on through a blinding wall of rain into
the dark night, waiting for the end. No sky was visible, nor the light
of any star, but the great cloud walls stood up thick on every side,
and it seemed as if the boat were plunging through a dark and dreary
tunnel.

Close to me, where a lantern not yet douted [Transcriber's note:
doused?] cast its fitful light, a man lay grovelling on the deck. He
was praying aloud in an agony of fear, but no sound could be heard from
his moving lips. Suddenly there came a crash as of a falling body, the
light went out, and I saw the man no more. How long the night lasted I
cannot tell; to me it seemed an age, and no second of it was free from
fear. Whether we were driving north, south, east, or west no one knew,
while the fury of the storm would have drowned the thunder of waves on
a surf-beaten shore. But the _Aguila_ was an English boat, built by
honest English workmen, and her planks held firmly together despite the
raging storm.

For long hours, as I have said, we were swallowed up in darkness,
feeling ourselves in the presence of death; but the light broke through
at last, a cold gray light, and cheerless withal, which exa