I myself, on my former voyage in the Rurik, should have infallibly suffered this fate, had the day dawned only half an hour later. Warned therefore by experience, I resolved not to trust to the chance of the night; and fortunately our English pilot, from whom we had not yet parted, was of the same opinion.--This man, who had grown grey in his employment, and was perfectly acquainted with these waters, advised our immediate return to Portsmouth, and that every effort should be made to reach it before sunset. I therefore had the ship put about, and setting as much sail as the violence of the wind would allow, we fled towards our place of refuge, the storm continually increasing. Although we ran pretty quick, we had scarcely got half-way back, before it became so foggy and dark, that the land, which had hitherto been our guide, was no longer discernible. We could not see three hundred fathoms from the ship. The change in our pilot's countenance showed that our situation had become critical. The little, stout, and hitherto phlegmatic fellow became suddenly animated by a new spirit. His black eyes lightened; he uttered several times the well-known English oath which Figaro declares to be "le fond de la langue," rubbed his bands violently together, and at length exclaimed, "Captain! I should like a glass of grog--Devil take me if I don't bring you safe into Portsmouth yet!" His wish was of course instantly complied with. Strengthened and full of courage, he seized the helm, and our destiny depended on his skill. It was now barely possible to reach Portsmouth with daylight by taking the shortest way through the Needles, a narrow strait between the Isle of Wight and the mainland, full of shallows, where even in clear weather a good pilot is necessary. The sun was already near setting, when an anxious cry from the watch announced the neighbourhood of land, and in the same instant we all perceived, at about a hundred fathoms' distance, a high fog-enveloped rock, against which the breakers raged furiously. Our pilot recognised it for the western point of the Isle of Wight at the entrance of the Needles, and the danger we were in only animated his spirits. He seized the helm with both hands, and guiding it with admirable dexterity, the ship flew, amidst the storm, through the narrow and winding channels to which the shallows confined it, often so close upon the impending rocks, that it seemed scarcely possible to pass them without a fatal collision. A small vessel that had sailed with us for some time at this moment struck, and was instantly swallowed by the waves without a possibility of saving her. This terrible sight, and the consciousness that the next moment might involve us in a similar fate, made every one on board gaze in silent anxiety on the direction we were taking: even the pilot said not a word.