Directly ahead of her the hills came down to meet the water.

A dark narrow cut, with towering sides, indicated an outlet for the tiny, inland sea.

This gorge, toward which the Doraine was being resistlessly drawn, appeared to be but little wider than the ship itself.
Almost in the shadow of the hills, and within a dozen ship-lengths of the sinister opening, the worn, exhausted, beaten Doraine came to rest at the end of her final voyage.

She shivered and groaned under the jarring impact, forged onward half her length, heeled over slightly--and died! She was anchored for ever in the tiny landlocked sea, proud leviathan whose days had been spent in the boundless reaches of the open deep.
And here for the centuries to come would lie the proud Doraine, guided to her journey's end by the pilot Chance, moored for all time in the strangest haven ever put into by man.
Behind the stranded vessel stretched centuries incalculable, and in all these centuries no man had entered here.

Screened from the rest of the world, untended by chortling tugs, unheralded by raucous sirens, welcomed only by primeval solitude, the Doraine had come to rest.
She settled down on her bed of rocks to sleep for evermore, a mottled monster whose only covering was the night; indifferent to storm and calm, to time and tide, to darkness and light, she sat serene in her little sea.