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“Full enough!” bawled the “governor.” “That fellow on the poop is mad. Cut the rope, or we are caught in the swirl.” The elder Barbarian lifted his companion as if to fling him into the boat, but Brasidas’s sword cut the one cable. The wave flung the Solon and the pinnace asunder. With stolid resignation the Orientals retreated to the poop.
The wind smote the straining mainsail, and the shivered mainmast tore from its stays and socket. Above the bawling of wind and water sounded the crash. The ship, with only a small sail upon the poop, blew about into the trough of the sea. A mountain of green water thundered over the prow, bearing away men and wreckage. The “governor,” Brasidas’s mate, flung away the last steering tiller.
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