Дэвид Копперфильд

Tempest

           

           Hamwatchedthesea,standingalone,withthesilenceofsuspendedbreathbehindhim,andthestormbefore,untiltherewasagreatretiringwave,when,withabackwardglanceatthosewhoheldtheropewhichwasmadefastroundhisbody,hedashedinafterit,andinamomentwasbuffetingwiththewater;risingwiththehills,fallingwiththevalleys,lostbeneaththefoam;thendrawnagaintoland.Theyhauledinhastily.

           Hewashurt.Isawbloodonhisface,fromwhereIstood;buthetooknothoughtofthat.Heseemedhurriedlytogivethemsomedirectionsforleavinghimmorefree—orsoIjudgedfromthemotionofhisarm—andwasgoneasbefore.

           Andnowhemadeforthewreck,risingwiththehills,fallingwiththevalleys,lostbeneaththeruggedfoam,borneintowardstheshore,borneontowardstheship,strivinghardandvaliantly.Thedistancewasnothing,butthepoweroftheseaandwindmadethestrifedeadly.Atlengthhenearedthewreck.Hewassonear,thatwithonemoreofhisvigorousstrokeshewouldbeclingingtoit,—whenahigh,green,vasthill-sideofwater,movingonshoreward,frombeyondtheship,heseemedtoleapupintoitwithamightybound,andtheshipwasgone!

           SomeeddyingfragmentsIsawinthesea,asifamerecaskhadbeenbroken,inrunningtothespotwheretheywerehaulingin.Consternationwasineveryface.Theydrewhimtomyveryfeet—insensible—dead

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