with a loud wail.

To a trembling inquiry how long they had to prepare, the captain
replied, "She may, or may not, last half an hour; over that, impossible;
she leaks like a sieve; bustle, men, lighten her."

The poor passengers seized on everything that was on deck and flung
it overboard. Presently they laid hold of a heavy sack; an old man was
lying on it, sea sick. They lugged it from under him. It rattled. Two
of them drew it to the side; up started the owner, and with an unearthly
shriek, pounced on it. "Holy Moses! what would you do? 'Tis my all;
'tis the whole fruits of my journey; silver candlesticks, silver plates,
brooches, hanaps--"

"Let go, thou hoary villain," cried the others; "shall all our lives be
lost for thy ill-gotten gear?" "Fling him in with it," cried one; "'tis
this Ebrew we Christian men are drowned for." Numbers soon wrenched it
from him, and heaved it over the side. It splashed into the waves. Then
its owner uttered one cry of anguish, and stood glaring, his white hair
streaming in the wind, and was going to leap after it, and would, had
it floated. But it sank, and was gone for ever; and he staggered to and
fro, tearing his hair, and cursed them and the ship, and the sea, and
all the powers of heaven and hell alike.

And now the captain cried out: "See, there is a church in sight. Steer
for that church, mate, and you, friends, pray to the saint, whoe'er he
be."

So they steered for the church and prayed to the unknown god it was
named after. A tremendous sea pooped them, broke the rudder, and jammed
it immovable, and flooded the deck.

Then wild with superstitious terror some of them came round Gerard.
"Here is the cause of all," they cried. "He has never invoked a single
saint. He is a heathen; here is a pagan aboard."

"Alas, good friends, say not so," said Gerard, his teeth chattering with
cold and fear. "Rather call these heathens, that lie a praying to
the sea. Friends, I do honour the saints--but I dare not pray to them
now--there is no time--(oh!) what avail me Dominic, and Thomas, and
Catherine? Nearer God's throne than these St. Peter sitteth; and if I
pray to him, it's odd, but I shall be drowned ere he has time to plead
my cause with God. Oh! oh! oh! I must need go straight to Him that made
the sea, and the saints, and me. Our Father which art in heaven, save
these poor souls and me that cry for the bare life! Oh, sweet Jesus,
pitiful Jesus, that didst walk Genezaret when