Hours passed thus⁠—hours which might write old age on the face of beardless youth, and grizzle the silky hair of infancy⁠—hours, while the chaotic uproar continued, while each dread gust transcended in fury the one before, and our skiff hung on the breaking wave, and then rushed into the valley below, and trembled and spun between the watery precipices that seemed most to meet above her. For a moment the gale paused, and ocean sank to comparative silence⁠—it was a breathless interval; the wind which, as a practised leaper, had gathered itself up before it sprung, now with terrific roar rushed over the sea, and the waves struck our stern. Adrian exclaimed that the rudder was gone;⁠—“We are lost,” cried Clara, “Save yourselves⁠—O save yourselves!” The lightning showed me the poor girl half buried in the water at the bottom of the boat; as she was sinking in it Adrian caught her up, and sustained her in his arms. We were without a rudder⁠—we rushed prow foremost into the vast billows piled up ahead⁠—they broke over and filled the tiny skiff; one scream I heard⁠—one cry that we were gone, I uttered; I found myself in the waters; darkness was around.