overloaded, and it was found necessary to leave behind a great portion
of the dried meat. With what pangs this was done can be easily imagined,
for each atom of food seemed to represent an hour of life. Yet there was
no help for it. As Frere said, it was "neck or nothing with them". They
must get away at all hazards.

That evening they camped at the mouth of the Gates, Dawes being afraid
to risk a passage until the slack of the tide, and about ten o'clock
at night adventured to cross the Bar. The night was lovely, and the
sea calm. It seemed as though Providence had taken pity on them; for,
notwithstanding the insecurity of the craft and the violence of the
breakers, the dreaded passage was made with safety. Once, indeed, when
they had just entered the surf, a mighty wave, curling high above them,
seemed about to overwhelm the frail structure of skins and wickerwork;
but Rufus Dawes, keeping the nose of the boat to the sea, and Frere
baling with his hat, they succeeded in reaching deep water. A great
misfortune, however, occurred. Two of the bark buckets, left by some
unpardonable oversight uncleated, were washed overboard, and with
them nearly a fifth of their scanty store of water. In the face of
the greater peril, the accident seemed trifling; and as, drenched and
chilled, they gained the open sea, they could not but admit that fortune
had almost miraculously befriended them.

They made tedious way with their rude oars; a light breeze from the
north-west sprang up with the dawn, and, hoisting the goat-skin sail,
they crept along the coast. It was resolved that the two men should keep
watch and watch; and Frere for the second time enforced his authority by
giving the first watch to Rufus Dawes. "I am tired," he said, "and shall
sleep for a little while."

Rufus Dawes, who had not slept for two nights, and who had done all the
harder work, said nothing. He had suffered so much during the last two
days that his senses were dulled to pain.

Frere slept until late in the afternoon, and, when he woke, found the
boat still tossing on the sea, and Sylvia and her mother both seasick.
This seemed strange to him. Sea-sickness appeared to be a malady which
belonged exclusively to civilization. Moodily watching the great green
waves which curled incessantly between him and the horizon, he marvelled
to think how curiously events had come about. A leaf had, as it were,
been torn out of his autobiography. It seemed a lifetime sin