Neither the anguish nor the fear was on our own account, for we were comparatively safe, but for poor little Binny Wallace, driven out to sea in the merciless gale.

We shuddered to think of him in that frail shell, drifting on and on to his grave, the sky rent with lightning over his head, and the green abysses yawning beneath him.

We fell to crying, the three of us, and cried I know not how long.
Meanwhile the storm raged with augmented fury.

We were obliged to hold on to the ropes of the tent to prevent it blowing away.

The spray from the river leaped several yards up the rocks and clutched at us malignantly.