The Storm and the Sacrifice

Donald sent the skiff through the choppy waves with vigorous strokes and
shot her around at the last moment for a perfect landing. The mainsail
and jib went up with rapid jerks while the rings rattled their protest.
The strenuous physical exercise brought him temporary relief; but, when
he had cast off, taken the tiller and after a few moments of idle
jockeying back and forth in the light puffs, squared away for the run
seaward before the rising wind, his gloomy thoughts returned, to settle
like a flock of phantom harpies and feast on his brain.

Out of nothing grew a vision of Judd's chalky, troubled face, and he
felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the crude mountaineer, who had
likewise loved and lost. "Smiles wasn't to blame then. She isn't to
blame _now_. She never led either of us on," he said aloud; but his
clenched teeth cut through the end of his cigar, nevertheless. With only
his moody thought to bear him company, Donald steered seaward.

Starting slowly, the racing craft was momentarily given new impetus by
swelling wind and following wave; but the man paid no heed to the things
which should have served him as a warning--the higher heaving of the
waters, now as gray and as cloudy green as a dripping cliff, and touched
with flecks of milky spume; and the uneven tugging of the sail. When he
did become aware of the swift change which had taken place, hardly five
minutes had passed from the time he had started out, yet a quick glance
behind him disclosed a new heaven and a new earth and sea; the old had
passed away.