“Gillans, we maun get clear of that mast, or ’twill be the ruin of us all,” shouted the captain through his trumpet. Gillans paused a moment: “It must be done, sir,” said he; “but how to get to her head through this mountain sea I hardly know.” “I’ll try it,” said the gallant Grinnerson—the wag now transformed into the hero—“happen what may.” Saying this, he seized an axe, and accompanied by a part of the crew, dashed forward, holding by the shattered bulwarks as they advanced. A few seconds of breathless suspense now elapsed, when a long dazzling flash illumined the vessel; down she lay, deep in the trough of the sea, whilst, by its light, a mountain wave appeared hanging over her, like a spirit of evil, and about to break by its own enormous weight. It broke—down it came, with a stunning smash, on the devoted vessel, taking her on the forecastle and midships, sparkling and fizzing in the lurid glare of the lengthened flash. The ship dived down, as if about to be engulphed. “We’re gone!” burst forth from many a voice. Slowly, however, she rose again from the effects of the stunning blow, and another flash exhibited a group of sailors on the forecastle, actively cutting and hacking away at the ropes and shrouds. In a few seconds the vessel seemed eased; the mast had been cut away, and shortly after, the heroic Grinnerson, streaming with sea-water, was amongst us. He had escaped, though two of the gallant fellows who had accompanied him had been swept away to a watery grave. “The Lord be thankt! ye ha’e done weel, sir,” said McGuffin, wringing the second mate’s hand in his iron gripe; “ye ha’e saved the ship.” The ship was now relieved, and the wind evidently falling, hope revived. I descended below, and throwing myself into my cot, slept, spite of the uproar, soundly till morning.