As suddenly as it had started the wind dropped to a flat calm. The rain, too, was lighter.
"Guess it's all over," remarked Griffiths. "It will be starlight outside."
"No such luck," replied Bobby. "That's only a preliminary canter. While we're about it we may as well rig up a couple of preventer-shrouds to that hurricane-lamp. I didn't like the way it swayed about just now."
The second phase of the storm burst. This time the wind roared. There was no sinister whine in the furious rush of air, but there was no mistaking the strength of the blast. A palm tree, uprooted, came crashing to earth, its leafed crest brushing against the side of the hut before it came to rest a good fifty feet away. Again and again the side of the hut bulged ominously, while eddying gusts found their way into the building, as if seeking a weak spot in the flimsy but stoutly-woven material.
The men stood silently alert. The noise of the elements crushed all desire to talk. Momentarily they expected to see the hut torn from its foundations and flung, like a discarded toy from the hand of a fractious child, into the storm-swept night.
This outburst lasted a good ten minutes. Then followed a period of calm unaccompanied by rain. The eerie silence that succeeded the deafening roar was almost as awe-inspiring as the hurricane.
"How's the old ship sticking it?" remarked Merridew. "I'll go out and have a look round."
He could see nothing save a line of white as the rollers, forced over the reef by the gale, lashed the beach.
Beyond all was in darkness. Whether the Titania's anchors held or whether she had been driven ashore there was no means of telling.
A long-drawn shrill whine warned him that it was high time to beat a retreat. He was not a moment too soon. He regained the hut, but it took the united efforts of four men to close and secure the door.