Hard aport, sir—ship on the starboard tack—dead ahead” came the cry.

“Port your wheel—hard over,” repeated the first officer to the quartermaster at the helm—who answered and obeyed. Nothing as yet could be seen from the bridge. The powerful steering-engine in the stern ground the rudder over; but before three degrees on the compass card were traversed by the lubber’s-point, a seeming thickening of the darkness and fog ahead resolved itself into the square sails of a deep-laden ship, crossing the Titan’s bow, not half her length away.

“H—l and d—” growled the first officer. Steady on your course, quartermaster,” he shouted. “Stand from under on deck.” He turned a lever which closed compartments, pushed a button marked—“Captain’s Room,” and crouched down, awaiting the crash.

There was hardly a crash. A slight jar shook the forward end of the Titan and sliding down her foretopmast-stay and rattling on deck came a shower of small spars, sails, blocks, and wire rope. Then, in the darkness to starboard and port, two darker shapes shot by—the two halves of the ship she had cut through; and from one of these shapes, where still burned a binnacle light, was heard, high above the confused murmur of shouts and shrieks, a sailorly voice:

“May the curse of God light on you and your cheese-knife, you brass-bound murderers.”

The shapes were swallowed in the blackness astern; the cries were hushed by the clamor of the gale, and the steamship Titan swung back to her course. The first officer had not turned the lever of the engine-room telegraph.

The boatswain bounded up the steps of the bridge for instructions.

“Put men at the batches and doors. Send every one who comes on deck to the chart-room. Tell the watchman to notice what the passengers have learned, and clear away that wreck forward as soon as possible.” The voice of the officer was hoarse and strained as he gave these directions, and the “aye, aye, sir” of the boatswain was uttered in a gasp.