THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING Gasping for breath, blinded, terrified beyond all imagination, crying to God from his heart, Hugh gave up all hope.

Fathoms of water beneath them, turbulent and gleeful in the furious dance of destruction; mountains of water above them, roaring, swishing, growling out the horrid symphony of death! High on the crest of the wave they soared, down into the chasm they fell, only to shoot upward again, whirling like feathers in the air.
Something bumped violently against Ridgeway's side, and, with the instinct of a drowning man, he grasped for the object as it rushed away.
A huge section of the bowsprit was in his grasp and a cry of hope arose in his soul.

With this respite came the feeling, strong and enduring, that he was not to die.

That ever-existing spirit of confidence, baffled in one moment, flashes back into the hearts of all men when the faintest sign of hope appears, even though death has already begun to close his hand upon them.

Nature grasps for the weakest straw and clings to life with an assurance that is sublime.