"I was coming for you. Where is Hano?" asked the girl as he drew himself up by her side.
"He climbed the cliff and went the other way. I tried to bring him here, for this is the better place."
"He is in the hands of his god," said the girl.
"As we are in the hands of ours," answered Beekman.
He turned toward her, and for a moment his back was to the sea.
"Look," she cried, peering over his shoulder.
He turned his head. What had happened before was child's play to what met them now.
"My God!" cried Beekman, staring into the white mist, appalled by what he saw.
A wall of water thirty feet high, although, to the man, it looked to be a hundred, was rolling in from seaward with the speed of an express train. Its top was curling, the spray whipping from it, but it was yet an unbroken mass. The thoughts of men take strange turns in such emergencies. It reminded him, for a second, of the pictures in his mother's Bible of the passage of the Red Sea, the waters a curling wall, concave over the heads of the pursuing Egyptians, about to break.
"What is it?" screamed the girl.