"We'll gladly risk our lives to save him, sir," cried two or three who were near him; "it's O'Connor--it's Terry O'Connor!" "So would I," escaped from my lips. I had at all events intended to have volunteered to go in the boat. "Down with the helm! Back the main-topsail!" exclaimed the captain in the same breath. "Stand by to lower a boat; but hold fast. Can any of you see or hear him?" The ship was hove to, and all hands stood peering into the loom and trying to catch a sound of a voice. O'Connor was a first-rate swimmer, and he was not a man to yield to death without a struggle--that we knew. It must be understood that, though several sentences were spoken, not thirty seconds had elapsed after he had struck the water before the order to heave the ship to was given. She was also going but slowly through the water, though, from the way she was tumbling about, a landsman might have supposed she was moving at a great rate. "Does any one see him?" asked the captain. Alas in that dark night even the sharpest eyes on board could not discern so small an object as a man's head floating amid those troubled waters. "Does any one see him?" There was a dead silence. The hopelessness of the case struck a chill through all our hearts. Two minutes--three-- passed away. We continued from all parts of the ship peering into the darkness--some to windward, others to leeward, and others a stern. Now I thought I saw something, but it was the dark top of a wave under the glistening foam. Five minutes had elapsed since the accident. Long before this the ship must have left him far astern, and he must have sunk beneath those heavy waves. Such was the feeling gaining possession of many. Again the captain made the final inquiry, "Does any one yet see him?" An ominous silence gave the sad response. "Then it is hopeless waiting longer. Fill the main-topsail. Up with the helm." Scarcely had the captain uttered these words in a loud voice, than a hand in the main-top hailed the deck with the words, "I hear a voice from down to leeward, sir." I had heard it also, I was certain. It was O'Connor's manly voice. It was not a shriek, the death-wail of a struggling wretch, but a bold, nervous hail. "Hold fast then with the main-topsail braces," cried the captain. There was no need of that order, by the bye. "Keep the helm down. Stand by to lower the starboard quarter boat." It was the lee one.