Дэвид Копперфильд

Tempest

           

           Theyweremakingouttome,inanagitatedway—Idon’tknowhow,forthelittleIcouldhearIwasscarcelycomposedenoughtounderstand—thatthelifeboathadbeenbravelymannedanhourago,andcoulddonothing;andthatasnomanwouldbesodesperateastoattempttowadeoffwitharope,andestablishacommunicationwiththeshore,therewasnothinglefttotry;whenInoticedthatsomenewsensationmovedthepeopleonthebeach,andsawthempart,andHamcomebreakingthroughthemtothefront.

           Irantohim—aswellasIknow,torepeatmyappealforhelp.But,distractedthoughIwas,byasightsonewtomeandterrible,thedeterminationinhisface,andhislookouttosea—exactlythesamelookasIrememberedinconnexionwiththemorningafterEmily’sflight—awokemetoaknowledgeofhisdanger.Iheldhimbackwithbotharms;andimploredthemenwithwhomIhadbeenspeaking,nottolistentohim,nottodomurder,nottolethimstirfromoffthatsand!

           Anothercryaroseonshore;andlookingtothewreck,wesawthecruelsail,withblowonblow,beatoffthelowerofthetwomen,andflyupintriumphroundtheactivefigureleftaloneuponthemast.

           Againstsuchasight,andagainstsuchdeterminationasthatofthecalmlydesperatemanwhowasalreadyaccustomedtoleadhalfthepeoplepresent,Imightashopefullyhaveentreatedthewind.‘Mas’rDavy,’hesaid,cheerilygraspingmebybothhands,‘ifmytimeiscome,’tiscome.

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