A convulsion of despair crossed the love-beaming face of Adrian, while with set teeth he murmured, “Yet they shall be saved!” Clara, visited by an human pang, pale and trembling, crept near him—­he looked on her with an encouraging smile—­“Do you fear, sweet girl?  O, do not fear, we shall soon be on shore!”

The darkness prevented me from seeing the changes of her countenance; but her voice was clear and sweet, as she replied, “Why should I fear? neither sea nor storm can harm us, if mighty destiny or the ruler of destiny does not permit.  And then the stinging fear of surviving either of you, is not here—­one death will clasp us undivided.”

Meanwhile we took in all our sails, save a gib; and, as soon as we might without danger, changed our course, running with the wind for the Italian shore.  Dark night mixed everything; we hardly discerned the white crests of the murderous surges, except when lightning made brief noon, and drank the darkness, shewing us our danger, and restoring us to double night.  We were all silent, except when Adrian, as steersman, made an encouraging observation.  Our little shell obeyed the rudder miraculously well, and ran along on the top of the waves, as if she had been an offspring of the sea, and the angry mother sheltered her endangered child.

I sat at the prow, watching our course; when suddenly I heard the waters break with redoubled fury.  We were certainly near the shore—­at the same time I cried, “About there!” and a broad lightning filling the concave, shewed us for one moment the level beach a-head, disclosing even the sands, and stunted, ooze-sprinkled beds of reeds, that grew at high water mark.  Again it was dark, and we drew in our breath with such content as one may, who, while fragments of volcano-hurled rock darken the air, sees a vast mass ploughing the ground immediately at his feet.  What to do we knew not —­the breakers here, there, everywhere, encompassed us—­they roared, and dashed, and flung their hated spray in our faces.  With considerable difficulty and danger we succeeded at length in altering our course, and stretched out from shore.  I urged my companions to prepare for the wreck of our little skiff, and to bind themselves to some oar or spar which might suffice to float them.  I was myself an excellent swimmer—­the very sight of the sea was wont to raise in me such sensations, as a huntsman experiences, when he hears a pack of hounds in full cry; I loved to feel the waves wrap me and strive to overpower me; while I, lord of myself, moved this way or that, in spite of their angry buffetings.  Adrian also could swim—­but the weakness of his frame prevented him from feeling pleasure in the exercise, or acquiring any great expertness.  But what power could the strongest swimmer oppose to the overpowering violence of ocean in its fury?  My efforts to prepare my companions were rendered nearly futile —­for the roaring breakers prevented our hearing one another speak, and the waves, that broke