The mast, broken in two, all bristling with quivering splinters, ropes, blocks, and yards, cumbered the deck. In falling it had stove in a plank of the starboard gunwale. The skipper, still firm at the helm, shouted,—
"While we can steer we have yet a chance. The lower planks hold good. Axes, axes! Overboard with the mast! Clear the decks!"
Both crew and passengers worked with the excitement of despair. A few strokes of the hatchets, and it was done. They pushed the mast over the side. The deck was cleared.
"Now," continued the skipper, "take a rope's end and lash me to the helm." To the tiller they bound him.
While they were fastening him he laughed, and shouted,—
"Blow, old hurdy-gurdy, bellow. I've seen your equal off Cape Machichaco."
And when secured he clutched the helm with that strange hilarity which danger awakens.
"All goes well, my lads. Long live our Lady of Buglose! Let us steer west."
An enormous wave came down abeam, and fell on the vessel's quarter. There is always in storms a tiger-like wave, a billow fierce and decisive, which, attaining a certain height, creeps horizontally over the surface of the waters for a time, then rises, roars, rages, and falling on the distressed vessel tears it limb from limb.
A cloud of foam covered the entire poop of the Matutina.