Three stumps of masts, broken off about two feet above the bridge,
showed that the vessel had had to sacrifice its masts. But, lying on
its side, it had filled, and it was heeling over to port.
This skeleton of what it had once been was a sad spectacle as it lay
lost under the waves, but sadder still was the sight of the bridge,
where some corpses, bound with ropes, were still lying.
I counted five--four men, one of whom was standing at the helm,
and a woman standing by the poop, holding an infant in her arms.
She was quite young. I could distinguish her features, which the water
had not decomposed, by the brilliant light from the Nautilus.
In one despairing effort, she had raised her infant above her head--
poor little thing!--whose arms encircled its mother's neck.
The attitude of the four sailors was frightful, distorted as they
were by their convulsive movements, whilst making a last effort
to free themselves from the cords that bound them to the vessel.
The steersman alone, calm, with a grave, clear face, his grey hair
glued to his forehead, and his hand clutching the wheel of the helm,
seemed even then to be guiding the three broken masts through the depths
of the ocean.
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