laden?” said Quirini.

The old sailor turned towards the part of the horizon which Quirini had pointed out; and as he looked, his face changed. “Quick,” said he, calling to the sailors who were nearest, “bid them draw in the sails. Let the rudder be bound firmly, for the tempest is well nigh on us—alas! for these terrible northern storms.”

Before he had well finished speaking, his Italian sailors had begun their work, the slower and more apathetic Greeks needing, even in that moment of danger, to be urged with many words before they would obey. Thus it was but slowly that the heavy sails, creaking and swaying in the wind, were drawn in and bound to the masts, and before half the work was done, the storm in its full fury had struck the ship, and each man clung for life to the nearest support, as the reeling vessel ploughed heavily through the swollen seas.

“Master, the rudder is gone, the rudder is lost,” cried many voices, as after a sudden lurch forward the ship righted again, and as they cried out, a fresh blast struck her, and the half-furled sails were torn into ribbons, and hung useless over the ship’s side.

The morning light found her still driving before the wind, and deep in the sullen water which rose almost above her sides as she flew faster than ever before the fierce wind. At length a sudden squall threw her on her side, while the waters rushed in as if to fill and sink her in a moment.

“Ho, men! an axe, an axe!” cried the master; “down with the main-mast!” and seizing a hatchet which lay at hand, Piero Quirini struck the first blow at the tall mast, whose weight was dragging down the vessel. Others with sword, or axe, or any tool which they could snatch at the moment, followed, and they were but just in time, for before another wave could wash over the vessel, the mast was floating free, and the ship had righted once more. The water was baled out with every vessel on which the men could lay their hands; and this weary work was continued all through the cold dark night, yet when the morning broke hours behind its time, as it seemed to the despairing sailors, the water in the hold was scarcely three inches lower.

The only hope for the crew lay in taking at once to their boats. There were two boats belonging to the ship—the pinnace and the skiff; the first was a long boat, but the skiff, which was considered the safer of the two, would hold but a smaller number.

The master called the men round him on the deck, and told them his decision. “Now, men,” said he, “you shall choose your boat; there stands the notary, Nicolo di Michiel, with his ink-horn and parchment; he shall write down the names of all who would fain sail in the skiff.”

“Master, there are forty-five for the skiff,” said Nicolo, slowly reckoning the long list of written names; “forty-five, and the skiff, saith Christoforo Fioravanti, holds but twenty-one.”

“Draw lots, men, we are brothers now in trouble, and none shall have advantage over the other.”

The lots were drawn, and then the master proceeded to divide between the two crews the stores of the fast-sinking ship. Bread, cheese, bacon, tallow and oil, and a little wine, as much as she could carry, were given to the crew of the skiff, while the master, with forty-six men, stored in the pinnace what remained on board, and one by one the men passed over the ship’s side, and the boats dropped off into the wide sea.

It was calm, the terrible wind had sunk down, and the keen wintry sky was clear once more, but yet the prospect before them was enough to trouble the bravest heart.

They were adrift in the bitter cold in open boats, but ill-supplied for a long voyage, and were, as they believed, five hundred miles from the nearest shore. All night a heavy mist hung over them, and when it was dispersed by the morning sun the crew of the pinnace looked round in vain for their companions,—the skiff was nowhere to be seen.

Six days had passed, and all hope of seeing their companion boat had grown faint, when another storm arose, and the pinnace, heavily laden, shipped so much water over the sides that all feared she would sink.

“Mens’ lives before wines and spices! precious and costly though they be,” said the master; “we must lighten the boat of all, save a little needful food and water; linger not, my children, therein lies our only hope.”

But the days went on, and though the storm passed, and the pinnace still rode safely on the waters, the hearts of the crew were heavy within them. The boat was indeed lighter now, for of the forty-seven who had embarked in her, twenty-six died, and their bodies had been solemnly committed to the deep, there to wait till, at the voice of God’s angel, the sea shall give up her dead. Solemn indeed must have been the thoughts of the survivors as they saw one after another of their comrades summoned from their side to stand before God; no one of them knew but that he might be called next, and all were sure that if help did not reach them speedily, none would return home to tell the tale of their sufferings. Some there were of that crew who, faint, weary, in want of covering, tortured with thirst, yet held fast their trust in their Father in Heaven, and cried to Him with agonized prayer to have mercy on them for Christ’s sake. And the prayer for deliverance was heard.

It was on the third of January, and the first faint daylight was stealing over the waters, when one of the crew, looking eagerly round as he raised himself from uneasy sleep, saw far off a faint line which seemed to be land. The sun rose higher and colored rose-red the snow-hooded tops of lofty rocks around the unknown coast. All the hope and desire of the shipwrecked crew was now to reach this shore, fearing its unknown dangers but little, compared with the terrible suffering they had long endured.

But, alas! the wind had died away, and in vain did they unfurl their sails, and set their rudder. They must try the oars then, but the arms of the starving sailors were too weak to move the boat, and they could do nothing but trust to the force of the waves and the currents which were bearing her along. It was the sixth of January when they reached the land, and with great difficulty drew their boat to the beach. They soon found that they had landed on an uninhabited island, which lay, as they afterwards found, off the coast of Norway—a strange and foreign land to the Venetians of those days.

No sooner did the wasted remnant of the crew set foot on shore than they rushed to the rocks, climbing them with strength which they had not thought they possessed, and eagerly gathering the pure white snow in their hands, bathed their parched lips and dry tongues, drinking again and again, as if they could never taste enough of this delicious draught.

“Now, men, draw the boat higher on shore, ere the tide go out and float her away,” said the master; but when the pinnace was drawn to the dry sand she was found to be so battered and so full of holes, that they all saw at once that it was useless to hope that they could ever put to sea in her again. “We will make her serve for a shelter at least,” said Christoforo, and so, dividing her into two parts, they, with the help of her sails, made two huts, in which the twenty-one sailors, who alone were left, might find some slight shelter from the winter wind.

“Our thirst have we slaked,” said Nicolo, “and said grace, I trust, for the draught; now, by your leave, good master, must we