was hardly perceptible. All the violence of that
collision was, as usual, felt only on board the smaller craft. Even
Nostromo himself thought that this was perhaps the end of his desperate
adventure. He, too, had been flung away from the long tiller, which
took charge in the lurch. Next moment the steamer would have passed on,
leaving the lighter to sink or swim after having shouldered her thus out
of her way, and without even getting a glimpse of her form, had it not
been that, being deeply laden with stores and the great number of people
on board, her anchor was low enough to hook itself into one of the wire
shrouds of the lighter's mast. For the space of two or three gasping
breaths that new rope held against the sudden strain. It was this that
gave Decoud the sensation of the snatching pull, dragging the lighter
away to destruction. The cause of it, of course, was inexplicable to
him. The whole thing was so sudden that he had no time to think. But all
his sensations were perfectly clear; he had kept complete possession of
himself; in fact, he was even pleasantly aware of that calmness at the
very moment of being pitched head first over the transom, to struggle
on his back in a lot of water. Senor Hirsch's shriek he had heard and
recognized while he was regaining his feet, always with that mysterious
sensation of being dragged headlong through the darkness. Not a word,
not a cry escaped him; he had no time to see anything; and following
upon the despairing screams for help, the dragging motion ceased so
suddenly that he staggered forward with open arms and fell against the
pile of the treasure boxes. He clung to them instinctively, in the
vague apprehension of being flung about again; and immediately he heard
another lot of shrieks for help, prolonged and despairing, not near
him at all, but unaccountably in the distance, away from the lighter
altogether, as if some spirit in the night were mocking at Senor
Hirsch's terror and despair.

Then all was still--as still as when you wake up in your bed in a dark
room from a bizarre and agitated dream. The lighter rocked slightly; the
rain was still falling. Two groping hands took hold of his bruised sides
from behind, and the Capataz's voice whispered, in his ear, "Silence,
for your life! Silence! The steamer has stopped."

Decoud listened. The gulf was dumb. He felt the water nearly up to his
knees. "Are we sinking?" he asked in a faint breath.

"I don't know," Nostromo