CHAPTER LXI.
They Round The Stormy Cape Of Capes Long leagues, for weary days, we voyaged along that coast, till we came to regions where we multiplied our mantles.
The sky grew overcast.

Each a night, black storm-clouds swept the wintry sea; and like Sahara caravans, which leave their sandy wakes-- so, thick and fleet, slanted the scud behind.

Through all this rack and mist, ten thousand foam-flaked dromedary-humps uprose.
Deep among those panting, moaning fugitives, the three canoes raced on.
And now, the air grew nipping cold.

The clouds shed off their fleeces; a snow-hillock, each canoe; our beards, white-frosted.
And so, as seated in our shrouds, we sailed in among great mountain passes of ice-isles; from icy ledges scaring shivering seals, and white bears, musical with icicles, jingling from their shaggy ermine.
Far and near, in towering ridges, stretched the glassy Andes; with their own frost, shuddering through all their domes and pinnacles.
Ice-splinters rattled down the cliffs, and seethed into the sea.
Broad away, in amphitheaters undermined by currents, whole cities of ice-towers, in crashes, toward one center, fell .-- In their earthquakes, Lisbon and Lima never saw the like.

Churned and broken in the boiling tide, they swept off amain;--over and over rolling; like porpoises to vessels tranced in calms, bringing down the gale.
At last, rounding an antlered headland, that seemed a moose at bay--ere long, we launched upon blue lake-like waters, serene as Windermere, or Horicon.