mere chips of wood and
hurried to their doom. Their wild cries for the help that could not be
given them pierced the ears of the others, who did not know but that
the next billow would treat them in like manner.

Again and again was the ill-starred ship thus swept by the billows,
each time fresh victims falling to their fell fury. Then came a wave
of surpassing size, which, lifting the _Francis_ as though she had been
a mere feather, bore her over the bar into the deeper water beyond.
Here, after threatening to go over upon her beam-ends, she righted once
more, and drove on toward the next bar.

CHAPTER III.

THE WRECK.

Major Maunsell gave a great gasp of relief when the brig righted.

"Keep tight hold of your rope, Eric," he cried encouragingly. "Please
God, we may reach shore alive yet."

Drenched to the skin and shivering with cold, Eric held tightly on to
the rope with his right hand and to Prince's collar with his left.
Prince had crouched close to the foot of the mast, and the waves swept
by him as though he had been carved in stone.

"All right, sir," Eric replied, as bravely as he could. "It's pretty
hard work, but I'll not let go."

Rearing and plunging amid the froth and foam, the _Francis_ charged at
the second bar, struck full upon it with a force that would have
crushed in the bow of a less sturdy craft, hung there for a few minutes
while the breakers, as if greedy for their prey, swept exultantly over
her, and then, responding to the impulse of another towering wave,
leaped over the bar into the deeper water beyond.

But she could not stand much more of such buffeting, for she was fast
becoming a mere hulk. Both masts had gone by the board at the last
shock, and poor little Eric certainly would have gone overboard with
the main-mast but for his prompt rescue by the major from the
entangling rigging.

"You had a narrow escape that time, Eric," said the major, as he
dragged the boy round to the other side of the mast, where he was in
less danger.

The passage over the bars having thus been effected, the few who were
still left on board the _Francis_ began to cherish hopes of yet
reaching the shore alive.

Between the bars and the main body of the island was a heavy cross-sea,
in which the brig pitched and tossed like a bit of cork. Somewhere
beyond this wild confusion of waters was the surf which broke upon the
beach itself, and in that surf the final struggle would take place.