In Which We Take to the Boats

I looked at the woman I loved, and self-reproach was in my soul, as I
saw a shudder go across her form. She was pale, but beyond a swift
look at me made no sign connecting me, either with the wreck or the
rescue. I think she had even then abandoned all hope of safety; and in
my own heart, such, also, was the rising conviction which I concealed.
Under the inborn habit of self-preservation, under the cultivated
habit of the well born, to show no fear and to use the resources of a
calm mind to the last in time of danger, we stood now, at least, in
some human equality. And again I lied and said, "There is no danger,"
though I could see the white rollers and could hear their roar on the
shore.

The night grew wilder. The great gulf storm had not yet reached its
climax, and none could tell what pitch of fury that might mean. The
dull jar of the boat as she time and again was flung down by the
waves, the shiver and creak and groan of the sturdy craft, told us
that the end might come at any instant, though now the anchor held
firm and our crawl on to the shoal had ceased. All around us was water
only four or five feet deep, but water whose waves were twice as high.
Once the final crash came, and it would be too late to launch a boat,
and all of us, overboard in that welter, were gone.