"As soon as it came down again, she looked for a moment from me to Jacobs, when Captain Williamson himself shouted over the taffrail! 'Sharp, sharp, there! the squall's coming down! she'll be up in the wind! let's get the helm free!' and directly after I found myself swinging twenty feet over the water with Violet Hyde, as the ship heeled to a puff that filled the spanker, and rose again on a huge swell, gathering steerage way, while every bolt of canvas in her flapped in again at once like thunder. I felt her shudder and cling to me--there was one half-minute we swung fairly clear of the stern; they stopped hoisting--and I almost thought I'd have wished that same half-minute half-a-day; but a minute after she was in the judge's arms on the poop; the men had contrived to get the cadets on board, too, and the boat was dragging astern, with the line veered out, and her crew still in it baling her out. "I fixed my eyes at once, breathless as we of the boat party were, on the weather-signs and the other vessel, which everybody on the poop was looking at, as soon as we were safe, and our friends in the gig had to be thought of. The short top-swell was beginning to soften in long regular seas, with just air enough aloft to give our light sails a purchase on it, and put an end to the infernal clatter; but the vapour had gathered quicker than you could well fancy behind the brig in the distance, so that she looked already a couple of miles nearer, rising up two or three times on as many huge swells that shone like blue glass, while she steadied herself like a tight-rope dancer on the top of them, by a studding-sail set high from each side. On the far horizon beyond her, you'd have thought there was a deep black ditch sunk along under the thickening blue haze, as it stretched out past her to both hands, till actually the solid breast of it seemed to shove the brig bodily forward over the oily-like water, every spar and rope distinct; then the fog lifted below as if the teeth of a saw came splitting through it, and we saw her bearing down towards us--cloud, water, and all, as it were--with a white heap of foam at her bows. "'Brace up sharp, Mr Finch!' said the old skipper hastily, 'and stand over to meet her. Confound this! we _must_ have these people out of that brig in a trice; we shall soon have a touch of the Horse Latitudes, or my name's not Richard Williamson--ay, and bid good-bye to 'em too, I think!'