duller, deeper roar. Great Heavens! It was the voice of breakers!

At that moment the moon began to shine forth again--this time behind the
path of the squall. Out far across the torn bosom of the ocean shot the
ragged arrows of her light, and there, half a mile ahead of us, was a
white line of foam, then a little space of open-mouthed blackness, and
then another line of white. It was the breakers, and their roar grew
clearer and yet more clear as we sped down upon them like a swallow.
There they were, boiling up in snowy spouts of spray, smiting and
gnashing together like the gleaming teeth of hell.

"Take the tiller, Mahomed!" I roared in Arabic. "We must try and shoot
them." At the same moment I seized an oar, and got it out, motioning to
Job to do likewise.

Mahomed clambered aft, and got hold of the tiller, and with some
difficulty Job, who had sometimes pulled a tub upon the homely Cam, got
out his oar. In another minute the boat's head was straight on to the
ever-nearing foam, towards which she plunged and tore with the speed
of a racehorse. Just in front of us the first line of breakers seemed
a little thinner than to the right or left--there was a cap of rather
deeper water. I turned and pointed to it.

"Steer for your life, Mahomed!" I yelled. He was a skilful steersman,
and well acquainted with the dangers of this most perilous coast, and I
saw him grip the tiller, bend his heavy frame forward, and stare at the
foaming terror till his big round eyes looked as though they would start
out of his head. The send of the sea was driving the boat's head round
to starboard. If we struck the line of breakers fifty yards to starboard
of the gap we must sink. It was a great field of twisting, spouting