Hours passed like magic, and the fast-waning afternoon light warned us to be off. We had scarcely shouted the last “good-bye” across the shining water when a violent wind arose, drowning with its rushing sound the tinkle of the music in the grove, and changing the placid stream into a turbulent sea of dashing waves. Night settled down with unusual haste, and in the increasing darkness we were tossed and buffeted along, sometimes half swamped, unable to find a landing on the steep, high banks, not daring to
WATER-CARRIERS, DUNA FÖLDVÁR
venture out into the raging stream, nor yet to approach too near the shore. The distorting gloom so changed the usual landmarks that we could not distinguish trees from bushes, and could only judge of our distance from the shore by the sound of the angry water beating against the bank. On we went, driven by the wind, which seemed to increase with every fresh gust. Wherever we tried to land, the breaking waves warned us that unless we found a sheltered spot we should pound our canoes to pieces before we got them ashore. The noise of the storm made it difficult for us to hear each other shout, and it was only by constant piping on our shrill whistles that we kept our little fleet together. The situation at last became so serious that we were about to give up all attempt to land, and were on the point of
FISHING-STATION