A low, long roll of thunder smote on the ear, like a message to the
ocean, from the heavens above, as we saw the waters close greedily over
the form of our dead passenger. The men who had launched the body from
the raft looked up and listened fearfully, and Christian Garth hastened
to trim his sail.
It was sunset now, and the clouds gathered so rapidly about the sun,
that he sank empalled in purple to his watery bed, leaving no trace
behind to mark his faded splendor.
A sudden breeze sprang up, infinitely refreshing at first to soul and
sense, and again the thunder lumbered and crashed about us. The billows
heaved and leaped like steeds just freed from harness, tossing their
white manes; the raft shuddered and reeled with a deadly, sickly motion,
like a creature in strong throes, plunging with frantic suddenness into
the troughs of the waves at one moment, as if impelled by fear, then
rallying to their summits, only to cast itself wildly down again.
All was confusion, dire and terrible. Then burst the storm upon
us--rain, wind!
I was conscious of clutching, with one hand, a rope which strained and
swayed desperately, while with the other I grasped the affrighted baby
to my breast.
Ada Greene and the old negro woman clung together, hanging to the same
cord of safety, flung to them, to all of us, by the hand of Christian
Garth.
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