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Fortunately, the hurricane was not one of long duration. Ere an hour had passed, the violence of the squall had greatly abated, but not before it had nearly dismantled the ship.

Fred Stanley stood clinging to a rope, gazing at the troubled sea and sky with a feeling of unspeakable awe, that swallowed up every other feeling. His hat had blown off; his long dark locks streamed wildly in the gale—his eyes were fixed, as if fascinated, on the gigantic billows, rising like huge mountains as if to overwhelm them.

His meditations were suddenly cut short by a hand being laid on his shoulder. With a start he looked up, and beheld, by the light of the binnacle-lamp, the pale features of Gus Elliott.

"A wild night, my friend," said the youth; and although he spoke loudly, his voice sounded almost like a whisper amid the roar of wind and sea.

"A fearful storm, truly," was the reply, as Fred's eyes again strove to pierce through the thick darkness.

"Would to Heaven it were morning! this intense darkness is appalling. Could we see our danger I would not care; but in this fearful gloom the imagination pictures a thousand horrors, far worse than the most dreadful reality."