Gerda's
awning had gone; and Dalfin shouted. But we could not heed that. We
were wrestling with the helm, for the wind was heavy and unsteady,
and the thunder rolled round us and above us, while the lightning
shot in jagged streaks from cloud to sea incessantly. The rain came
in torrents, whitening the sea; but Gerda stood with her arm round
the high sternpost, with her yellow hair flying and the water
streaming from her, seeming to enjoy the turmoil.
The rain swept past, and the wind fell suddenly, as it had come.
For a few minutes the sail hung and flapped, and then the worst
happened. I heard Bertric cry to us to hold on, and a fresh squall
was on us. It came out of the south as if hurled at us, taking the
sail aback. The forestay parted, and then with a crash and rending
of broken timber the mast went some six feet from the deck, falling
aft and to port, and taking with it half the length of the gunwale
from amidships.
After that crash we stood and looked at one another, each fearing
that there must be some hurt. But there was none. We had been well
aft, and the falling masthead and yard had not reached us, though
it had been too near to be pleasant. Maybe the end of the yard, as
it fell, missed me by a foot or so.
But though Gerda's face was pale, and her eyes wide with the terror
of the wreck, she never screamed or let go her hold of the
sternpost to which she had been clinging.
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