fear, but no danger. It's folly to go back;
you'll only have the same ground to go over
again"

The gentlemen in the cabin, good sailors who
were able to enjoy their meal, laughed with the
surly captain at the frightened landsmen on
deck. He then complimented two pretty girls
who had remained in the cabin on their seamanship.
By this time the mate had also taken
more than his share of grog, and as two of the
steamer's crew had been left at Bangor on the
last voyage, there were only two flushed men
left to work the crazy vessel. A second request
was then made by those on deck, who saw what
little way the steamer made, to put back to
Liverpool while power still remained to do so.

The dogged captain, heedless of danger,
replied mildly, "If we were to turn back with
passengers, it would never do; we should have
no profit."

On the confused vessel went, making very
little way, her single engine beating feebly
against a heavy and growing sea, much too near
the land prudently to weather that great
promontory of Denbighshire, the Great Ormshead.
She should have been steered for the Menai
Straits, with the wind fairly on her beam, her
sails set in aid of the flagging steam.

A little after five, when the captain, heated
and testy, returned on deck after two hours
over his wine, a cluster of passengers came
round him, and entreated him to return, all
offering their fare, and others promising a
gratuity in money. To one passenger he said,
tauntingly, "One would suppose you had
committed a murder, you are so frightened. I'm
not one that turns back. If you knew me,
you would not ask such a thing."

The sea was now forcing its way through
the axles of the paddles, the engine fires were
partly extinguished, and thus the steam power
was reduced just when it was most needed.
The cabin floors were also under water; the
smeared and black-faced firemen were discussing
the vessel in rather an ominous way; one said
she was sixteen years old, and originally no
better than a tea-chest. Old sailors had always
prophesied she'd be the grave of some of them
some day. Passengers are easily scared, but
sailors' fears are presages.

Between six and seven the ebb tide made,
and this, it was hoped, would help them on;
but the vessel was more helpless than ever,
going scarcely more than two miles an hour.
The seams gaped wider, the engine fires grew
duller as heavy seas poured down from the
deck into the engine-room. The captain was
down below, making evasive and contradictory
answers.

"It's only the tail of a storm gone by, and
there's no danger."

But at last came the confession so terrible to
frightened passengers:

"I wish I could get somewhere to ride out
the storm!"

All this time the lee shore was looming near.
Driven landward by the wind and waves, the
Rothsay Castle had been these dreadful hours
working painfully from the Hoyle sands at the
mouth of the Dee, parallel to every bay and
bight, till, about eight o'clock, she arrived off
the Little Ormshead. From thence past the
Great Ormshead (only four miles) took the
wretched cranky vessel two hours; and the
leakage increased as night came on. A sloop
passed within a short distance, and two miles
off there was good anchorage a mile from the
shore; yet the infatuated captain neither
signalled the sloop for help nor tried to anchor.
The passage from Liverpool to Beaumaris is only
fifty miles, and is generally done in six to seven
hours; but this steamer had been eleven hours
accomplishing thirty-six miles. The hold was
now so full of water that it ran over into the
cabin. The passengers began to work at the
pumps in gangs, but the majority had given up
all hope; for the leaks gained fast upon them,
and the captain thought it dangerous to put
into Conway, and had refused to push on to
Penmaen, to anchor there sheltered by the
Anglesea coast. The sky was at this time wild
and cloudy, and through the driven clouds the
moon seemed to race, often obscured and
sometimes lost; and, through the sickly light, the
precipice of the Great Ormshead was seen
throwing its mighty shadow, blackening the
mountainous waves.

The danger increased—yes, it was upon them
now. The coals were drenched, and every time
the furnace doors were opened the sea rushed in
and dulled the fires. Eleven o'clock came, and
the leaks were fast increasing. Nothing could
now compose the women. The captain was
in vain asked to hoist a lantern or fire a signal-
gun; but he had neither gun nor lantern, and
he never thought of blazing a tarred rope from
the poop to bring out the Welsh fishermen.

At about a quarter to twelve land duskily
gloomed on the larboard bow, and the sinking
moon showed it to be Puffin Island, half a mile
from Anglesea, and at the entrance of the Menai
Straits. A cry of joy greeted it from the deck,
for it seemed an omen of safety. There was
hope now; but two of the engine-room fires
were extinguished. The pumps had become
blocked with ashes from the furnaces, and were
useless. A brave passenger called out for
buckets to bale with, but the only bucket on
board had just dropped overboard. The same
energetic man proposed to bale with hats, but
the expedient seemed inadequate, and no one
joined him in it. Now was a crisis indeed. The
tide had turned, the water was getting shallow;
the place was dangerous at night without
constant sounding. The captain should have used
his sails, or have anchored and made signals of
distress; but he remained down below.

There were shoals everywhere before the
vessel; the spot was indeed the very Dardanelles
of the voyage, and required incessant care even
for a good ship and by sunlight. Beaumaris
Bay opened to the north; at the eastern
entrance to it frowned the Great Ormshead, and
on the west stretched the coast of Anglesea and