The whipping breeze of their swift course, the hiss at the bows as foam and water crumbled out and over, somewhat diminished.

The goal lay not far off.
To starboard, thinning lights told the Master they were breasting Spuyten Duyvil.

To port, only a few scattered gleams along the base of the cliff or atop it, showed that the sparsely settled Palisades were drawing abeam.

The ceaseless, swarming activities of the metropolis were being left behind.

Silence was closing in, broken only by vagrant steamer-whistles from astern.
A crawling string of lights, on the New York shore, told that an express was hurling itself cityward.