On the other hand, though the wind is rough and blowing in their faces, those girls there, striding hand in hand, shouting out a song, seem to feel neither cold nor shame.

They are hatless.

They triumph.
The wind has blown up the waves.

The river races beneath us, and the men standing on the barges have to lean all their weight on the tiller.

A black tarpaulin is tied down over a swelling load of gold.