The words were but out, when, with a loud report like a cannon-shot, the wind reversed the sail, snapping the strong sprit in two, and bringing down the whole canvas clattering into the boat. With the aid of a hatchet, the sailor struck off the broken portion of the spar, and soon cleared the wreck, while the boat, now reduced to a mere foresail, labored heavily, sinking her prow in the sea at every bound. Her course, too, was now altered, and she flew along parallel to the shore, the great cliffs looming through the darkness, and seeming as if close to them. “The boy!--the boy!” cried Harcourt; “what has become of him? He never could have lived through that squall.” “If the spar stood, there was an end of us, too,” said the sailor; “she'd have gone down by the stern, as sure as my name is Peter.” “It is all over by this time,” muttered Harcourt, sorrowfully. “Pace to him now!” said the sailor, as he crossed himself, and went over a prayer. The wind now raged fearfully; claps, like the report of cannon, struck the frail boat at intervals, and laid her nearly keel uppermost; while the mast bent like a whip, and every rope creaked and strained to its last endurance. The deafening noise close at hand told where the waves were beating on the rock-bound coast, or surging with the deep growl of thunder through many a cavern. They rarely spoke, save when some emergency called for a word. Each sat wrapped up in his own dark reveries, and unwilling to break them. Hours passed thus,--long, dreary hours of darkness, that seemed like years of suffering, so often in this interval did life hang in the balance. As morning began to break with a grayish blue light to the westward, the wind slightly abated, blowing more steadily, too, and less in sudden gusts; while the sea rolled in large round waves, unbroken above, and showing no crest of foam. “Do you know where we are?” asked Harcourt. “Yes, sir; we 're off the Rooks' Point, and if we hold on well, we 'll soon be in slacker water.” “Could the boy have reached this, think you?” The man shook his head mournfully, without speaking. “How far are we from Glencore?” “About eighteen miles, sir; but more by land.” “You can put me ashore, then, somewhere hereabouts.” “Yes, sir, in the next bay; there's a creek we can easily run into.” “You are quite sure he couldn't have been blown out to sea?” “How could he, sir? There's only one way the wind could dhrive him. If he isn't in the Clough Bay, he's in glory.” All the anxiety of that dreary night was nothing to what Harcourt now suffered, in his eagerness to round the Rooks' Point, and look in the bay beyond it. Controlling it as he would, still would it break out in words of impatience and even anger. “Don't curse the boat, yer honor,” said Peter, respectfully, but calmly; “she's behaved well to us this night, or we 'd not be here now.” “But are we to beat about here forever?” asked the other, angrily.