The man is not angry, much less fearful; but his lips are quivering and his nostrils widening with a passion hitherto unknown. He sees the picture vividly--a majestic, gallant ship done to destruction; a rich, ruined seaman wandering on earth a broken heart in a dishonoured bosom. Not only a gallant ship, but a lifelong pride and the fulness of a heart's desire swept recklessly into limbo. Here, at last, had his love revealed itself. "No, by God, she SHALL not perish!" With a rapid movement he gains the fo'castle, and roars into it, "All hands 'bout ship! Quick now, for your very lives!" There is no mistaking his tone. It is not one of driving tyranny, but of urgent agony, and it goes right home to every man. Up they tumble in a ready crowd, many in their shirts alone. They are all sleepy, but the business on hand will soon cure them of this. They stand by. The helm is put down, and quickly the Chrysolite veers round in process of reaching the other tack. Will she do it? No! She trembles almost in the teeth of the wind, misses stays, and falls off again on to the old tack. Anderson cannot understand it, old sailor as he is; puts the helm down once more; once more she misses. "Back the main-yard! Shiver the foreyard!" Soon every stitch of canvas on the mainmast is swung about to face the breeze, while that on the foremast is hauled in. Although she be going at eight knots, THAT should check her. But it does not. "Mizzen topsail braces, then!" Quick as thought the lee braces are slacked off, and those on the weather side made taut. Still she is not checked. Strange, too, for the breeze is stiff. Anderson feels she is in the stream of a strong current. There had been no need to say what was the cause of danger. The heavy boom of breakers rose above the tread of feet, the clashing of spars, and the chorus of curses. Meanwhile Mr. Grant has finished his calculations below. He has found for a result that the ship is among the Maldive reefs. He is certain there must be some error in his work, and he sets himself to revise his figures. But the breeze sweeps into the cabin with a faint command from the upper air--"Back the main-yard!"--and he shrewdly guesses that his calculations are correct. The captain is everywhere at once, urging and aiding. He sees the whole canvas aback, and yet the Chrysolite drifts on. He cannot 'bout his ship nor back her. The reef is quite within appreciable distance now. The hands can do nothing more, so they gaze at the dancing line of phosphorescent atoms, and curse tremendously--though these may be their last moments. "All hands wear ship!" comes sharply from Anderson. "--you and your orders!" cries some one. "To the boats, to the boats!"