The breath whistled through our nostrils.

Le Marchant's face when he glanced across his shoulder was twisted like a crumpled mask.

We swung up from our seats and slewed half round to get every pound we could out of the thrashing oars.
We rushed in between the Moie des Burons and the Burons themselves, and drove straight for the harbour.

For a moment the schooner was hid from us.
Then she came racing out again.

The tide was running like a fury.