“Say, also, if the tide would have let us do so,” returned the pilot, calmly. “Gentlemen, we must be prompt; we have but a mile to go, and the ship appears to fly. That topsail is not enough to keep her up to the wind; we want both jib and mainsail.” “'Tis a perilous thing to loosen canvas in such a tempest!” observed the doubtful captain. “It must be done,” returned the collected stranger; “we perish without it--see the light already touches the edge of the hummock; the sea casts us to leeward.” “It shall be done,” cried Griffith, seizing the trumpet from the hand of the pilot. The orders of the lieutenant were executed almost as soon as issued; and, everything being ready, the enormous folds of the mainsail were trusted loose to the blast. There was an instant when the result was doubtful; the tremendous threshing of the heavy sail seemed to bid defiance to all restraint, shaking the ship to her centre; but art and strength prevailed, and gradually the canvas was distended, and bellying as it filled, was drawn down to its usual place by the power of a hundred men. The vessel yielded to this immense addition of force, and bowed before it like a reed bending to a breeze. But the success of the measure was announced by a joyful cry from the stranger, that seemed to burst from his inmost soul. “She feels it! she springs her luff! observe,” he said, “the light opens from the hummock already: if she will only bear her canvas we shall go clear.” A report, like that of a cannon, interrupted his exclamation, and something resembling a white cloud was seen drifting before the wind from the head of the ship, till it was driven into the gloom far to leeward. “'Tis the jib, blown from the bolt-ropes,” said the commander of the frigate. “This is no time to spread light duck--but the mainsail may stand it yet.” “The sail would laugh at a tornado,” returned the lieutenant; “but the mast springs like a piece of steel.” “Silence all!” cried the pilot. “Now, gentlemen, we shall soon know our fate. Let her luff--luff you can!”