The view filled us with emotions
of delight. We shot from beneath the great cliff into Flat-Rock Bay,
rounding, at length, the breakers and the cape into the smoother
waters of Torbay. As the oars dipped regularly into the polished
swells, reflecting the heavens and the wonderful shores, all lapsed
into silence. In the gloom of evening the rocks assumed an unusual
height and sublimity. Gliding quietly below them, we were saluted
every now and then by the billows thundering in some adjacent cavern.
The song of the sea in its old halls rung out in a style quite
unearthly. The slamming of the mighty doors seemed far off in the
chambers of the cliff, and the echoes trembled themselves away,
muffled into stillness by the stupendous masses.
Thus ended our first real hunting of an iceberg. When we landed, we
were thoroughly chilled. Our man was waiting with his wagon, and so
was a little supper in a house near by, which we enjoyed with an
appetite that assumed several phases of keenness as we proceeded.
There was a tower of cold roast beef, flanked by bread and butter and
bowls of hot tea. The whole was carried silently, without remark, at
the point of knife and fork. We were a forlorn-hope of two, and fell
to, winning the victory in the very breach. We drove back over the
fine gravel road at a round trot, watching the last edge of day in the
northwest and north, where it no sooner fades than it buds again to
bloom into morning. We lived the new iceberg-experience all over
again, and planned for the morrow.
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