eir fate?

All are thinking of it, though no one offers a surmise. No one can tell
to what they have committed themselves. 'Tis only sure, that in the
tempest now raging there must be danger to the stranger craft, without
counting that signalised by the reversed ensign--without thought of the
mystery already enwrapping her. The heart of every one on board the
warship is beating with humanity, as pulsing with pent-up fear. And
while the waves are pitching her almost on her beam-ends--while winds
are rattling loud amidst her rigging--a yet louder sound mingles with
their monotone. It is given out at regularly measured intervals: for it
is the _minute-gun_ which the frigate has commenced firing--not as a
signal of distress, asking for assistance, but one of counsel and cheer,
seeking to give it. Every sixty seconds, amidst the wild surging of
waves, and the hoarse howling of winds, the louder boom of cannon breaks
their harsh continuity.

The night comes down, adding to the darkness, though not much to the
dilemma in which the frigate is placed. The fog and storm combined have
already made her situation dangerous as might be; it could not well be
worse.

Both continue throughout the night. And on through it all she keeps
discharging her signal-guns, though no one thinks of listening for a
response. In all probability there is no cannon aboard the barque--
nothing that could give it.

Close upon the hour of morning, the storm begins to abate, and the
clouds to dissipate. The fog seems to be lifting, or drifting off to
some other part of the ocean.

And with hope again dawning comes the dawn of day. The frigate's
people--every man of them, officers and tars--are upon deck. They stand
along the ship's sides, ranged in rows by the bulwarks, looking out
across the sea. There is no fog now--not the thinnest film. The sky is
clear as crystal, and blue as a boat-race ribbon fresh unfolded; the sea
the same, its big waves no longer showing sharp white crests, but
rounded, and rolling lazily along. Over these the sailors look,
scanning the surface. Their gaze is sent to every quarter--every point
of the compass. The officers sweep the horizon with their glasses,
ranging around the circle where the two blues meet. But neither naked
eye nor telescope can discover aught there. Only sea and sky; an
albatross with pinions of grand spread, or a tropic bird, its long
tail-feathers trailing train-like behind it. No