THE WRECK OF THE YACHT.
It is a dreadful thing to have the honeyed chalice dashed from one’s lips just as he is about to drink the nectar.
I certainly never had such a rude shock in all my life as when that terrific crash sent a shudder through the yacht, and every one knew instinctively that the worst had happened.
This was the beginning of the end.
There could no longer be felt that free movement to tell us the vessel was running before the gale or even rising with each billow.
Instead we experienced a peculiar shivering sensation over the whole fabric, which was accentuated with the rush of each wave that beat up against her.
Hildegarde had half started from her seat, as white as snow—if there was terror in her azure eyes, it was mute.
Not so Diana, who shrieked as though crazed with fear; I could also hear the voice of Gustavus amid the chaotic confusion, but whether he were endeavoring to calm his frenzied wife, or had lost his own head in the horror of the moment, it was impossible for me to guess.
I staggered to my feet.
The weight of monumental disaster appeared to be upon my shoulders.