o the ship!"

The young officer sprang back on the horse-block, his soul filled with
horror. So fate had decided for him at last, and duty, not love, had
won the mighty game. A third broadside passed harmlessly over the
ship, doing little damage, the rough weather making aiming uncertain.
Again the field-piece replied. Seymour never turned his head in the
direction of the frigate. He could not look upon the catastrophe;
besides, the exigency of the situation demanded that he give his whole
mind to conning the ship through the narrow pass. Bentley himself,
assisted by a young sailor, kept the helm; the oldest seamen had charge
of the braces. The wreck of the mizzen topgallant mast was allowed to
hang for the present.

The white water dashed about the ship in sheets of foam; they were well
in the breakers now, and the most ignorant eye could see the danger.
One false movement meant disaster for the ship for whose safety Seymour
had sacrificed so much. He did not make it. To his disordered fancy
Katharine's white face looked up at him from every breaking wave. He
steeled his heart and gave his orders with as much ease and precision
as if it had been a practice cruise. To the day of his death he could
not account for his ability to do so. He made a splendid figure,
standing on the horse-block, his hair flowing out in the wind, his face
deadly pale; calm, cool, steady; his voice clear and even, but heard in
every part of the ship. The heart of the old sailor at the helm
yearned toward him, and the seamen looked at him as if he had been a
demigod. He never once looked back, but from the cries of the men he
could follow every motion of the frigate behind him. The frigate, the
unsuspicious frigate, had followed the course of the transport exactly,
and was coming down to the deadly rocks like a hurricane.

Talbot, his quarrel forgotten for the moment, ceased firing, and stood,
with all of the men who could be spared from their stations, looking
aft at the tremendous drama being played.

"The frigate! Look at the frigate! She 's going to strike, sir!"
cried one of the seamen, excitedly,--old Thompson, who had sailed upon
her. "See, they see the breakers. Now there go the head yards. It
won't do. It's too late. My God, she strikes, she strikes! I 'll
have one more shot at her before she goes," he shrieked, taking hasty
aim over the loaded field-piece and touching the priming. "Ay, and a
hit too. Hurrah!