It was, by guess, about nine o’clock; and there was no light except the phosphorescence of the water.  When a wave came rushing through the fog, its black body invisible in the darkness, the crest glanced like quicksilver and broke into ten thousand coruscations as the boat balanced on the top,—­pouring a flood of glittering water past the stern and over the canvas cover, and dripping from the sides in sparkling drops.  Wherever a foam-bubble burst or oar dipped, it was like opening a silver-lined casket.  The boat left a luminous track, which rose with the waves as they swelled behind her, and disappeared in the night.  It required a strong hand to keep her in her course; had she broached to, I should have been rolled out and obliged to swim for it.  A quick eye was necessary to watch, lest, in spite of the oars, she might swing round and turn over.  The utter darkness and the storm so threatening at sundown had come in full force.  It was raining and blowing heavily, and the strong wind driving the rain and mist in sheets across the water deepened the hoarse roar of the sea.  I was very wet, and not so fresh, after my forty miles or more of hard, steady pulling, as in the morning; I was also very sleepy, so that it was not easy to keep even one eye open to look out for passing coasters,—­the chief danger.  My craft was so slender they could have gone over her in the darkness and storm and never have known it.  The tide was still setting out, the sea was very high, and there was not a ray of light from White Island.  My best course seemed to be to continue pulling slowly and keep the boat stern to the sea till after midnight, when the tide would change and the wind would lull for a short time,—­unless it should prove to be the beginning of the gale, and not its forerunner, as I had thought.  The hours passed slowly.  There was much to do in heading straight and in easing up when the great waves loomed through the fog.  Midnight would decide whether at day-dawn I must pull for it, and run, if possible, the line of breakers on Rye Beach, with rather less than an even chance of coming out right-end uppermost, or whether the wind and sea would go down so that I could slip quietly ashore before the gale returned.

Midnight came at last; the rain ceased and the wind began to shift to the south, and I knew that now the probability of going ashore decently was good.  The tide having turned, the wind moderated, and the sea, though still high, was longer and did not break so quickly.  Still farther to the south veered the wind, and a little after three, as well as I could tell by my watch, the fog thinned, so that, looking up, I caught the faint glimmer of a star; then another peeped through the cloud.  The mist broke in several places, then drifted over, then broke again; and, chancing to look seaward, a light flared into full blaze for a moment, swung smaller, then vanished.  There was no mistaking it,—­White Island light at last!