had his back to the sea. His companions turned
also, and gazed at a spot situated about half a mile inland. It was
Dundonald Castle. A long flame twisted and bent under the gale, on the
summit of the old tower.

"The Fire-Maiden!" cried the superstitious men in terror.

Clearly, it needed a good strong imagination to find any human likeness
in that flame. Waving in the wind like a luminous flag, it seemed
sometimes to fly round the tower, as if it was just going out, and a
moment after it was seen again dancing on its blue point.

"The Fire-Maiden! the Fire-Maiden!" cried the terrified fishermen and
peasants.

All was then explained. The ship, having lost her reckoning in the
fog, had taken this flame on the top of Dundonald Castle for the Irvine
light. She thought herself at the entrance of the Firth, ten miles
to the north, when she was really running on a shore which offered no
refuge.

What could be done to save her, if there was still time? It was too
late. A frightful crash was heard above the tumult of the elements. The
vessel had struck. The white line of surf was broken for an instant; she
heeled over on her side and lay among the rocks.

At the same time, by a strange coincidence, the long flame disappeared,
as if it had been swept away by a violent gust. Earth, sea, and sky were
plunged in complete darkness.

"The Fire-Maiden!" shouted Ryan, for the last time, as the apparition,
which he and his companions believed supernatural, disappeared. But then
the courage of these superstitious Scotchmen, which had failed before a
fancied danger, returned in face of a real one, which they were ready to
brave in order to save their fellow-creatures. The tempest did not deter
them. As heroic as they had before been credulous, fastening ropes round
their waists, they rushed into the waves to the aid of those on the
wreck.

Happily, they succeeded in their endeavors, although some--and bold Jack
Ryan was among the number--were severely wounded on the rocks. But the
captain of the vessel and the eight sailors who composed his crew were
hauled up, safe and sound, on the beach.

The ship was the Norwegian brig MOTALA, laden with timber, and bound for
Glasgow. Of the MOTALA herself nothing remained but a few spars, washed
up by the waves, and dashed among the rocks on the beach.

Jack Ryan and three of his companions, wounded like himself, were
carried into a room of Melrose Farm, where every care was lavished o