In the early morning hours the first great drops pattered heavily on the awning, and a puff of wind was perceptible soon after. Mr. Wells had the deck, and the men joyfully sprang to the braces to trim the yards in accordance with his orders. By the time this was accomplished the tropical rain descended in perfect torrents,—blinding sheets,—and the ship was well heeled over, running before a heavy squall with nearly squared yards. The rain hissed into the foaming ocean, the lightning flashed, and for four hours the _Lochleven_ seemed literally to fly, as if trying to escape the demon of destruction within. The awning was new and shed the torrents of water well, though the heaviness of the deluge threatened to split it. The squall passed over slowly, having helped the ship along nearly fifty miles towards the islands. Then the rain ceased and the wind nearly so, leaving only a two-knot zephyr. Even this was better than a calm, but soon after sunrise it increased to a steady breeze which held all that day. The captain and Mrs. Stafford undertook to go below and bring up some of their clothes and other possessions, but were rendered nearly insensible before they had crossed the cabin. Up through the floor came volumes of poisonous gas, rendering the atmosphere so stifling that both hastened back and stumbled up the companion-way to the purer air. The books, trinkets and souvenirs that Mrs. Stafford had picked up all over the world,—many of which were rendered dear by their associations, rather than by their intrinsic value,—all these things she prized so highly were utterly lost. The captain had private charts belonging to himself that could scarcely be replaced. It was impossible to get at them. All the scuppers were plugged up and water pumped on the main deck until it fairly swam, There was nothing else to be done but to scan the horizon and hope that the crisis might not come until the wind had carried them nearer the islands, which were yet a good three hundred miles to the eastward. Another squall from the southwest towards evening increased their speed, though everyone was in constant fear lest the wind should fail entirely when it passed over. Captain Stafford resolved to take to the boats the moment it fell calm, for it was already perilous to remain on the ship. They were literally living over a volcano, and nothing but the desire to get as near land as possible induced him to stick to the vessel so long. Occasional heavy puffs of smoke and sparks came from two of the hatches towards morning, and all hands were on the qui vive, momentarily expecting the order to get the boats over. The wind grew lighter, and as it failed the poisonous vapors nearly choked those on board. The man at the wheel struck eight bells—it was 4 A.M. Never again would those spokes be clasped by human hands, or that bell be heard to ring. From away forward floated the answering sound of the bell on the foremast.