The mast yet holds firm. The sail stretches tight like a bubble ready to burst. The raft flies at a rate that I cannot reckon, but not so fast as the foaming clouds of spray which it dashes from side to side in its headlong speed.

“The sail! the sail!” I cry, motioning to lower it.

“No!” replies my uncle.

“ Nej! ” repeats Hans, leisurely shaking his head.