But the wind still howled, and the sea gave little promise of abating its fury until morning.
Everywhere I looked there were the same tumbling, riotous waves, curling and hissing; while the wind snatched away their foamy masses, and hurled the spume through the air with all the stinging emphasis of hail.
It was impossible to see any distance from the spot where we were wedged upon the reef; consequently, although I might feel almost positive that the land must lie at no great distance to leeward, mortal eyes could not distinguish the outlines of that shore until morning came, however wistfully they might be turned thither.
So far as I could tell, we were lodged securely enough upon the rocks, and the chances of being washed off were slender, unless some tidal wave, like the one that must have thrown us there, came along.
The question at issue was of another character, that affected our future just as much—how long could the yacht stand this terrific hammering from the billows that broke over her?
When she gave way it meant the end.
I had reason to rejoice over her unusual stability—she had been known more as a sturdy sea craft than for any great speed, a vessel in which a man might meet the vicissitudes of the ocean without more fear than if abroad some monster Atlantic liner.
This quality must serve us now—indeed, our lives depended upon how long the yacht could hold out against such constant battering.
Having comprehended our condition as well as such a hasty survey would allow, my next thought was of my crew.
What had become of Robbins, Cummings and the rest? Were they forward somewhere, awaiting the end, or had the monster already seized them in his insatiable maw?