And the last night of the seven was the stormiest of all.  There was no thunder, no noise but the pounding bows of the ship, the keen whistling of the gale through the cordage, and the rush of the seething waters.  But the vessel climbed aloft as if she would climb to heaven—­then paused an instant that seemed a century and plunged headlong down again, as from a precipice.  The sheeted sprays drenched the decks like rain.  The blackness of darkness was everywhere.  At long intervals a flash of lightning clove it with a quivering line of fire that revealed a heaving world of water where was nothing before, kindled the dusky cordage to glittering silver, and lit up the faces of the men with a ghastly luster!

Fear drove many on deck that were used to avoiding the night winds and the spray.  Some thought the vessel could not live through the night, and it seemed less dreadful to stand out in the midst of the wild tempest and see the peril that threatened than to be shut up in the sepulchral cabins, under the dim lamps, and imagine the horrors that were abroad on the ocean.  And once out—­once where they could see the ship struggling in the strong grasp of the storm—­once where they could hear the shriek of the winds and face the driving spray and look out upon the majestic picture the lightnings disclosed, they were prisoners to a fierce fascination they could not resist, and so remained.  It was a wild night —­and a very, very long one.

Everybody was sent scampering to the deck at seven o’clock this lovely morning of the thirtieth of June with the glad news that land was in sight!  It was a rare thing and a joyful, to see all the ship’s family abroad once more, albeit the happiness that sat upon every countenance could only partly conceal the ravages which that long siege of storms had wrought there.  But dull eyes soon sparkled with pleasure, pallid cheeks flushed again, and frames weakened by sickness gathered new life from the quickening influences of the bright, fresh morning.  Yea, and from a still more potent influence:  the worn castaways were to see the blessed land again!—­and to see it was to bring back that motherland that was in all their thoughts.

Within the hour we were fairly within the Straits of Gibraltar, the tall yellow-splotched hills of Africa on our right, with their bases veiled in a blue haze and their summits swathed in clouds—­the same being according to Scripture, which says that “clouds and darkness are over the land.”  The words were spoken of this particular portion of Africa, I believe.  On our left were the granite-ribbed domes of old Spain.  The strait is only thirteen miles wide in its narrowest part.

At short intervals along the Spanish shore were quaint-looking old stone towers—­Moorish, we thought—­but learned better afterwards.  In former times the Morocco rascals used to coast along the Spanish Main in their boats till a safe opportunity seemed to present itself, and then dart in and capture a Spanish village and carry off all the pretty women they could find.  It was a pleasant business, and was very popular.  The Spaniards built these watchtowers on the hills to enable them to keep a sharper lookout on the Moroccan speculators.