"Strike a light, can't you, Birkenshead? What has happened? Bah! this is horrible! I have swallowed the sea-water! Hear it swash against the sides of the boat! Is the boat going to pieces?"
"And there met us 'a tempestuous wind called Euroclydon,'" said Birkenshead, looking up with a curious smile.
"Did there?"—rubbing his shoulder. "I've kept clear of the sea so far, and I think in future—Hark! what's that?" as through the darkness and the thunderous surge of the water, and the short, fierce calls of the men on board, came a low shivering crack, distinct as a human whisper. "What is it, Birkenshead?" impatiently, when the other made no answer.
"The schooner has struck the bar. She is going to pieces."
The words recalled the old servant of Christ from his insane fright to himself.
"That means death! does it not?"
"Yes."
The two men stood silent,—Doctor Bowdler with his head bent and eyes closed. He looked up presently.
"Let us go on deck now and see what we can do,"—turning cheerfully. "No, there are too many there already."
There was an old tin life-preserver hanging on a hook by the door; the surgeon climbed up to get it, and began buckling it about the old man in spite of his remonstrances. The timbers groaned and strained, the boat trembled like some great beast in its death-agony, settled heavily, and then the beams on one side of them parted. They stood on a shelving plank floor, snapped off two feet from them, the yellow sky overhead, and the breakers crunching their footing away.