Today it is surging fiercely; its waves are black, and their white
heads curl over upon the rock Bucephalus, that stretches far out
into the bay of Contessa, pictured against the blue sky in the form
of a gigantic black steed. Huddled together, at the foot of this
rock, and leaning against its surface, is a group of men and boys.
They are eagerly gazing out upon the water, and are perhaps speaking
to each other; but no one hears what another says, for the waves are
roaring, and the storm howling in the rocky caves, and the waves and
storm, with their mighty chorus, drown the little human voices. The
pale faces of the boys are expressive of terror and anxiety, the
knit brows of the men indicate that they are expecting a disaster,
and the trembling lips of the old men forebode that the next hour
may bring with it some horrible event.

They stand upon the beach, waiting anxiously; but the monster--the
sea--regards them not, and hurls one black wave after the other in
upon the cliff behind which they stand, often drenching them with
spray.

But these people pay no attention to this, hardly notice it; their
whole soul is in their eyes, which are gazing fixedly out upon the
waters. Thus they stand, these poor, weak human beings, in the
presence of the grand, majestic ocean, conscious their impotence,
and waiting till the monster shall graciously allow his anger to
abate. For a moment the storm holds its breath; a strange, solemn
stillness follows upon the roaring of the elements, and affords
these people an opportunity to converse, and impart their terror and
anxiety to each other.

"He will not return," said one of them, with a shake of the head and