that they "were short;" or, in other words, that the ship was nearly
over her anchor.

"Heave and pull," cried Griffith; when the quivering notes of the
whistle were again succeeded by a general stillness in the vessel.

"What is to be done now, sir?" continued the lieutenant; "shall we trip
the anchor? There seems not a breath of air; and as the tide runs slack,
I doubt whether the sea do not heave the ship ashore."

There was so much obvious truth in this conjecture, that all eyes turned
from the light and animation afforded by the decks of the frigate, to
look abroad on the waters, in a vain desire to pierce the darkness, as
if to read the fate of their apparently devoted ship from the aspect of
nature.

"I leave all to the pilot," said the captain, after he had stood a short
time by the side of Griffith, anxiously studying the heavens and the
ocean. "What say you, Mr. Gray?"

The man who was thus first addressed by name was leaning over the
bulwarks, with his eyes bent in the same direction as the others; but as
he answered he turned his face towards the speaker, and the light from
the deck fell full upon his quiet features, which exhibited a calmness
bordering on the supernatural, considering his station and
responsibility.

"There is much to fear from this heavy ground-swell," he said, in the
same unmoved tones as before; "but there is certain destruction to us,
if the gale that is brewing in the east finds us waiting its fury in