"For they are blest that have not much to rue -
That have not oft misheard the prompter's cue."

The gale was apparently at its height--that is to say, it was
blowing harder than it had blown all through the night. But those
whose business is on the great waters know that a gale usually
finishes its wrath in a few wild squalls. "'Tis getting puffy," the
sailors say; "'tis nearly over."

A man hurrying through the narrow main street of Yport was thrown
against the shutters of the little baker's shop on the left-hand
side, and stood there gasping for breath.

"Mon Dieu!" he muttered. "It's a dog's night."

And he wiped the rain from his face. The wind, which blew from a
wild north-west, roared against the towering cliffs, and from east
and west concentrated itself funnel-wise on the gap where Yport
lies. Out seaward there was a queer, ghostly light lying on the
face of the waters--the storm-light--and landsmen rarely see it.
For the sea was beaten into unbroken foam. The man, who was clad in
oilskins, was in the neck of the funnel. Overhead, he heard the
wind roaring through the pines far up on the slope of the narrow
valley--close at hand, a continuous whistle told of its passage
across the housetops. The man steadied himself with his left hand.
He had but one, and he cursed the empty sleeve which flapped across
his face.