Now the wind suddenly ceased as before.
Appadocca, with Lorenzo and Jack Jimmy, were sitting on the top of a lofty rock: they were viewing the last struggles of their vessel.
“A terrible night, this is, Lorenzo,” said Appadocca.
“It is, indeed, your excellency, a frightful night! for——hark! What cry is that? It is from the schooner,” cried Lorenzo, as he stood up.
A supernatural shriek fell on the ear. It came from the schooner. Again it came—again—and again—as she was battered against the rock.
The three persons were silent.
“Oh, I know,” cried Lorenzo.
“It is the prisoner—I may save him yet—I may save him yet,” said Lorenzo.
They were the shrieks of James Willmington, who was still battened down in the narrow torture-room, into which he had been thrown, and was undergoing more than a thousand deaths; dying as he was, thus cooped up in a dark narrow cabin, and the vessel breaking asunder under him.