Could we stand more of it, and worse?
I felt a cold chill chase up and down my spinal column; the grim specter grew more positive. We were facing a grave peril, and the chances seemed against us.
Robbins was the man for the hour—Robbins, who seemed to know just what should be done, and whose valiant spirit could never be daunted by the fiercest storm that ever blew in this hurricane sea.
I rejoiced to think what a lucky chance sent him my way when I wandered amid the flower-strewn calles of Bolivar; he might yet prove the rock of our salvation.
All had been done that was possible, and, while stout hearts tried to hold the course, we could only await the result.
About two o’clock the scene was at its worst.
I never expect to look upon the like again, and even at this distant day I am apt to feel a shudder at the recollection of it all.
Still, we kept our head up in the teeth of the gale, though how fast we were being washed to leeward, and toward the coast, none among us could even hazard a guess.
Then a gleam of hope came—the mercury was beginning to rise—the worst had been passed.
So night found us tossing almost helplessly on those mountainous seas, but with some reason to believe we might be saved.