A little later the procession continued on its way to the North Sea, but when the boats came up with the Hoheweg lighthouse further disquieting news was received. The keepers signalled that the barometer was falling, and that a thunderstorm was hurrying across the North Sea from England. Anchors were thrown out hurriedly, and everything made snug and tight for the approaching storm. It burst with fearful severity. The waves got up, the wind blew with fiendish velocity in terrifying gusts, and the rain tumbled down in sheets. The engineers were on tenterhooks the whole hour and a half the storm raged, as they foresaw lively times if the unmanageable hulk broke loose. But the “Colossus” rode the gale as quietly as if moored to a wharf in dock. The storm, however, upset all calculations for the day. There was no possibility of getting the caisson out and sunk before nightfall, so the engineers prepared to pass the night at anchor, and to start off again with the dawn. The weather, ruffled by the thunderstorm, refused to settle down until a further day and night had been wasted. Then, at 7.30 in the morning, on a favourable tide, anchors were weighed, and, steaming hard through a broken sea, the tugs conveyed the caisson on its journey. At last the procession reached the buoy marking the site. The caisson was brought to rest, the water was admitted gently through the valves, and slowly, steadily, and vertically, the shell sank lower and lower, until a scarcely perceptible shock conveyed the intimation that it had touched bottom.