A loud crack, followed by others in quick succession, shattered it. A rending, rushing sound filled the air. Its shrouds and backstays long since shot away, the mainmast had broken fifteen feet above the deck, snapped by the prodigious pitching of the brig as she plunged head-on into the rollers. It fell forward, fouling the fore-yards; and in that moment the Good Fortune, already a wreck below from Lowther's guns, became a wreck above also, a helpless plaything of the waves.
A cry rose from her deck—a cry that was not a cheer—a hoarse, long-drawn moan of dismay. Slowly she fell off until she lay in the trough of the seas, wallowing heavily, rolling her ripped and shattered bulwarks under. No spar ever fashioned could stand such a strain. Within three minutes her dreadful wallowing fairly jerked the foremast out of her.
She lived a half-hour longer. Wind and tide and onrushing combers drove her drunkenly towards the coast. When she perished she perished utterly. The sea raised her high and flung her down upon an invisible reef, raised her once more and a second time flung her down. To Lachlan it seemed that she went to pieces as suddenly as though some monstrous cannon in her vitals had exploded and blown her into atoms.
Lachlan lay on his back in a shallow hollow amid low sand hills. He raised his head slowly and looked
