And plunging, they struck out for land: Yoomy buoying Mohi up, and the salt waves dashing the tears from his pallid face, as through the scud, he turned it on me mournfully.
“Now, I am my own soul’s emperor; and my first act is abdication! Hail! realm of shades!”—and turning my prow into the racing tide, which seized me like a hand omnipotent, I darted through.
Churned in foam, that outer ocean lashed the clouds; and straight in my white wake, headlong dashed a shallop, three fixed specters leaning o’er its prow: three arrows poising.
And thus, pursuers and pursued flew on, over an endless sea.