From these we made all haste to be free, by cutting the rigging that held them.
Soon, the worst of the gale was blown over.

But the sea ran high.

Yet the rack and scud of the tempest, its mad, tearing foam, was subdued into immense, long-extended, and long-rolling billows; the white cream on their crests like snow on the Andes.

Ever and anon we hung poised on their brows; when the furrowed ocean all round looked like a panorama from Chimborazo.
A few hours more, and the surges went down.

There was a moderate sea, a steady breeze, and a clear, starry sky.