It was a terrible situation; one moment they saw nothing, and seemed
down in a mere basin of watery hills; the next they caught glimpses of
the shore speckled bright with people, who kept throwing up their arms
to encourage them.

When they had tumbled along thus a long time, suddenly the friar said
quietly: "I touched the ground."

"Impossible, father," said Gerard. "We are more than a hundred yards
from shore. Prythee, leave not our faithful mast."

"My son," said the friar, "you speak prudently. But know that I have
business of Holy Church on hand, and may not waste time floating, when I
can walk in her service. There, I felt it with my toes again! Thy
stature is less than mine; keep to the mast; I walk." He left the mast
accordingly, and extending his powerful arms, rushed through the water.
Gerard soon followed him. At each overpowering wave the monk stood like
a tower, and, closing his mouth, threw his head back to encounter it,
then emerged and ploughed lustily on. At last they came close to the
shore, and then the natives sent stout fishermen into the sea, holding
by long spears, and so dragged them ashore.

The friar shook himself, bestowed a short paternal benediction on the
natives, and went on to Rome, without pausing.

Gerard grasped every hand upon the beach. They brought him to an
enormous fire, left him to dry himself, and fetched clothes for him to
wear.