He is about to announce the cutter's return from the frigate.

Ah no! It is not that; but something different; which instead of
gratifying, gives them a fresh spasm of pain. Listening, they hear him
say:--

"Come on deck, Mr Crozier! There's a bank o' black fog rollin' up.
It's already close on the barque's starboard bow. It look like there's
mischief in't; and I believe there be. For God's sake, hurry up, sir!"

CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.

A STRUGGLE WITH THE STORM.

The summons of the coxswain is too serious to be disregarded; and soon
as hearing it, the two officers hasten upon deck, leaving Don Gregorio
reclining along the settee.

Glancing over the barque's starboard bow, they behold a sky black as
Erebus. It is a fog-bank, covering several points of the compass. But
while they stand regarding it, it lengthens along the horizon, at the
same time rising higher against the heavens. They can see that it is
approaching, spreading over the ocean like a pall. And, where it
shadows the water, white flakes show themselves, which they know to be
froth churned up by the sharp stroke of a wind-squall.

They do not stand idly gazing. All three recognise the threatening
danger. They only cast a glance towards the frigate, and, perceiving
they can hope for no help from her, at once commence taking measures for
themselves. "To the sheets!" shouts Crozier. "Let fly all!"

At the command, the midshipman and coxswain bound off to execute it, the
lieutenant himself assisting; since there are but the three to do the
work. For the negro, released by Grummet, despite half a pint of rum
poured down his throat, is scarcely able to keep his feet. No help,
therefore, to be had from him, nor any one else.

But the three strong men, with confidence in their strength, and with
knowledge to comprehend the approaching peril, take the proper steps to
avert it--these being, as Crozier has commanded, to let go everything.

Working as if for life, they cast off sheets and halyards, and let the
canvas flap free. No time for clewing up, or making snug: no thought of
either. The sails must take their chance, though they get split into
shreds, which they are pretty sure to do.

This actually occurs, and soon. Scarce has her canvas been released
from its sheets and tacks, when the barque becomes enveloped in a dense
cloud, and the wind strikes like a cannon shot against her sails.
Luckily, they were loosed in time. If still