of the sea and sky would have made a study for a Turner.

"What's that?"

"It's a steamer," the captain shouted. It was only by great exertions
that he could make himself audible above the shrieking of the wind and
the dash of the waves.

"What do you think of it all?" Ezra asked.

"Very bad," Miggs answered. "Couldn't be worse;" and with that he
clawed his way aft again, grasping every stanchion or shroud on his way,
like a parroquet in a cage.

The clouds above broke somewhat towards morning, but there was no sign
of abatement in the tempest. Here and there through the rifts the
glimmer of the stars might be seen, and once the pale moon gleamed
through the storm wreath. The dawn broke cheerless and dreary,
disclosing the great turmoil of endless slate-coloured waves and the
solitary little barque, with her rag of canvas, like a broken-winged
seabird, staggering to the south.

Even the Girdlestones had noticed that, whereas towards the commencement
of the storm it had been a rare occurrence for a wave to break over the
ship, the decks were now continually knee-deep in water, and there was a
constant splashing and crashing as the seas curled over the weather
bulwark. Miggs had already observed it, and conferred gravely with his
mate on the point.

"I don't like the looks of her, Mac," he shouted. "She don't rise to
them."

"She's near water-logged, I'm thinkin'," the mate responded gravely.

He knew the danger, and his thoughts were wandering away to a little
slate-tiled cottage near Peterhead. It is true that there was not much
in it save a wife, who was said to give Sandy the rough side of her
tongue, and occasionally something rougher still. Affection is a
capricious emotion, however, and will cling to the most unlikely
objects; so the big Scotchman's eyes were damp with something else
beside the sea spray as he realized that he might never look upon
cottage or occupant again.

"No wonder," said Miggs, "when she's takin' in water above and below
too. The men are weary wi' pumpin', and it still gains."

"I doot it's our last v'yage thgither," the mate remarked, his Scottish
accent waxing broader under the influence of emotion.

"What d'ye say to heavin' her to?"

"I'd let her run on. She would na rise tae the waves, I'm fearin'.
We canna be vera fa' frae the Spanish coast, accordin' to my
surmisation. That wud gie us a chance o' savin' oorsels, though I'm a
feared na boat would live in sic