This, then, was the point which they had reached, and they saw before them a series of giant rocks towering aloft from the depths of the sea hundreds of feet into the air,--black, rough, without a trace of vegetation, thrusting their sharp pinnacles into the sky, while thousands of sea-gulls screamed about their summits, and myriads of sea-waves beat about their bases. There the tide rolled, and the ocean currents streamed to and fro, and the billows of the sea kept up perpetual war, assailing the flinty rock, and slowly wearing away, as they had been doing through the ages, atom by atom and fragment by fragment, the forms of these mighty bulwarks of the land. This was the scene upon which they gazed as they reached Cape Split and prepared to enter into the Strait of Minas. But Bennie’s brow was dark, and Bennie’s brow was gloomy, and there were thoughts in Bennie’s mind which had no connection with any grandeur of scenery or beauty of landscape. For Bennie was thinking of the practical, and not of the picturesque; and so it was that the question of reaching Parrsboro’ was of far more importance to him than the glories and the grandeur and all the sublime attractions of Cape Split. “Tell you what it is, boys,” said he, after a long and thoughtful silence, “we’ve missed it, an we’ve got to look sharp, or else we’ll miss it agen.” “Missed it? Missed what?” “What? Why, everything.” “Everything. What do you mean?” “Wal, it’s this con-founded tide.” “What about it?” “Why, you see,” said Bennie, scratching his grizzled head, “I thought we might git round the cape in time to catch the flood tide, and if so, it would carry us straight up to Parrsboro’; but, un-fort’nately, we’ve jest missed it. We’ve took so much time in gittin here that we’ve lost the flood. The tide’s now on the ebb, an it’s clear agin us. What’s wuss, it runs down tremenjus, an it’ll be a leetle hard for us to git up anyhow; an, what’s wusser, thar’s goin to be a fog.” “A fog!” “Yes, a fog, an no mistake. See thar,”--and Bennie pointed down the bay,--“see thar. The wind’s ben a shiftin an’s finally settled into a son-wester, an thar’s the fog a drawin in all round us, an before another half hour we’ll be all shut in, an won’t be able to see the other end of the boat. What’s wuss still, the fog is goin to be a reglar settled fog, an may last a fortnight, an the ony thing that I can see in our favor jest now is, that the wind is fair for us; but, unfortinately, the wind don’t seem to promise to be strong enough to carry us up agin the tide.” “What! Can’t we get to Parrsboro’ in time for the steamer at all?” “The steamer? O, yes, no doubt about that. But what I’m afeard on is, that we’ll be all night about it.” “O, well, that can’t be helped. We can stand it. We’ve had worse things than this to stand of late, and this is mere child’s play.”