Another smart fellow cut the life-buoy adrift so quickly that it struck the water within ten yards of Staines. The officer of the watch, without the interval of half a moment, gave the right orders, in the voice of a stentor; “Let go life-buoy. “Life-boat's crew away. “Hands shorten sail. “Mainsel up. “Main topsel to mast.” These orders were executed with admirable swiftness. Meantime there was a mighty rush of feet throughout the frigate, every hatchway was crammed with men eager to force their way on deck. In five seconds the middy of the watch and half her crew were in the lee cutter, fitted with Clifford's apparatus. “Lower away!” cried the excited officer; “the others will come down by the pendants.” The man stationed, sitting on the bottom boards, eased away roundly, when suddenly there was a hitch--the boat would go no farther. “Lower away there in the cutter! Why don't you lower?” screamed the captain, who had come over to leeward expecting to see the boat in the water. “The rope has swollen, sir, and the pendants won't unreeve,” cried the middy in agony. “Volunteers for the weather-boat!” shouted the first lieutenant; but the order was unnecessary, for more than the proper number were in her already. “Plug in--lower away.” But mishaps never come singly. Scarcely had this boat gone a foot from the davit, than the volunteer who was acting as coxswain, in reaching out for something, inadvertently let go the line, which, in Kynaston's apparatus, keeps the tackles hooked; consequently, down went the boat and crew twenty feet, with a terrific crash; the men were struggling for their lives, and the boat was stove. But, meantime, more men having been sent into the lee cutter, their weight caused the pendants to render, and the boat got afloat, and was soon employed picking up the struggling crew. Seeing this, Lieutenant Fitzroy collected some hands, and lowered the life-boat gig, which was fitted with common tackles, got down into her himself by the falls, and pulling round to windward, shouted to the signalman for directions. The signalman was at his post, and had fixed his eye on the man overboard, as his duty was; but his mess-mate was in the stove boat, and he had cast one anxious look down to see if he was saved, and, sad to relate, in that one moment he had lost sight of Staines; the sudden darkness--there was no twilight--confused him more, and the ship had increased her drift. Fitzroy, however, made a rapid calculation, and pulled to windward with all his might. He was followed in about a minute by the other sound boat powerfully manned, and both boats melted away into the night. There was a long and anxious suspense, during which it became pitch dark, and the ship burned blue lights to mark her position more plainly to the crews that were groping the sea for that beloved passenger.