numberless serpentine curves of the sea.

At night it stands an enormous block resting on the folds of a huge
black sheet. In time of storm it awaits the stroke of the axe, which is
the thunder-clap.

But there is never a thunder-clap during the snowstorm. True, the ship
has the bandage round her eyes; darkness is knotted about her; she is
like one prepared to be led to the scaffold. As for the thunderbolt,
which makes quick ending, it is not to be hoped for.

The _Matutina_, nothing better than a log upon the waters, drifted
towards this rock as she had drifted towards the other. The poor
wretches on board, who had for a moment believed themselves saved,
relapsed into their agony. The destruction they had left behind faced
them again. The reef reappeared from the bottom of the sea. Nothing had
been gained.

The Caskets are a figuring iron[7] with a thousand compartments. The
Ortach is a wall. To be wrecked on the Caskets is to be cut into
ribbons; to strike on the Ortach is to be crushed into powder.

Nevertheless, there was one chance.

On a straight frontage such as that of the Ortach neither the wave nor
the cannon ball can ricochet. The operation is simple: first the flux,
then the reflux; a wave advances, a billow returns.

In such cases the question of life and death is balanced thus: if the
wave carries the vessel on the rock, she breaks on it and is lost; if