A
far-off look came over him, which indicated that a tender
chord had been touched. Obviously his thoughts were
revisiting the scene of a fierce conflict for life. The
sight was sublime, and when I saw the moisture come into his
eyes and his breast heave with emotion, it made me wish that
I had not reminded him of it. At length he began to unfold
the awful story. He was master of a brig called the _Ocean
Queen_. I think he said it was in the month of December,
1874. They sailed from a Gulf of Finland port laden with
deals. After many days they reached the longitude of
Gotland; they were then overtaken by a hurricane from the
west which battered the vessel until she became water-logged
and dismasted. The crew lashed themselves where they could,
and huddled together for warmth to minimise the effects of
the biting frost and the mad turmoil of boiling foam which
continuously swept over the doomed vessel, and caked itself
into granite-like lumps of ice. At intervals they would try
to keep their blood from freezing by watching a "slant" when
there was a comparative smooth, and run along the deckload a
few times, keeping hold of the life-line that was stretched
fore and aft for this purpose.
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