They were soon out of sight. The rowers pulled hard, but a stiff
northeaster straight from Japan was blowing against them, and
they made but little headway. Night came down, and they were
again skirting those dark cliffs, where, here and there, along
the narrow strip of sand, the night-fires of the savages flamed
out against the dark tangle of foliage. All night long the rowers
struggled against the wind. They were afraid to go out far for
the waves were wild, they dared not land, for, crueler than the
sea, the head-hunters waited for them on the shore. And so all
that night, taking turns with the rowers, the missionary and his
students toiled against the wind and wave. The dawn came up gray
and stormy, and they were still tossing about among the white
billows. No one had touched food for twenty-four hours. They had
rice in the boat, but there was no place where they dared land to
have it cooked. There was nothing to do but to pull, pull at the
oars, and a weary task it seemed, for the boat appeared to make
little headway, and the rowers barely succeeded in keeping her
from being dashed upon the rocks.
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