ings, she was
sheltered from the north by the Little Douvre, on the south by the Great
one; terrible escarpments, more accustomed to wreck vessels than to save
them. On the western side she was protected by the frame of timbers made
fast and nailed to the rocks--a tried barrier which had withstood the
rude flood-tide of the sea; a veritable citadel-gate, having for its
sides the columns of the rock--the two Douvres themselves. Nothing was
to be feared from that side. It was on the eastern side only that there
was danger.

On that side there was no protection but the breakwater. A breakwater is
an apparatus for dividing and distributing. It requires at least two
frames. Gilliatt had only had time to construct one. He was compelled to
build the second in the very presence of the tempest.

Fortunately the wind came from the north-west. The wind is not always
adroit in its attacks. The north-west wind, which is the ancient
"galerno," had little effect upon the Douvres. It assailed the rocks in
flank, and drove the waves neither against the one nor the other of the
two gullets; so that instead of rushing into a defile, they dashed
themselves against a wall.

But the currents of the wind are curved, and it was probable that there
would be some sudden change. If it should veer to the east before the
second frame could be constructed the peril would be great. The
irruption of the sea into the gorge would be complete, and all would
probably be lost.

The wildness of the storm went on increasing. The essence of a tempest
is the rapid succession of its blows. That is its strength; but it is
also its weakness. Its fury gives the opportunity to human intelligence,
and man spies its weak points for his defence; but under what
overwhelming assaults! No respite, no interruption, no truce, no pause
for taking breath. There seems an unspeakable cowardice in that
prodigality of inexhaustible resources.

All the tumult of the wide expanse rushed towards the Douvres. Voices
were heard in the darkness. What could they be? The ancient terror of
the sea was there. At times they seemed to speak as if some one was
uttering words of command. There were clamours, strange trepidations,
and then that majestic roar which the mariners call the "Ocean cry." The
indefinite and flying eddies of the wind whistled, while curling the
waves and flinging them like giant quoits, cast by invisible athletes,
against the breakers. The enormous surf streamed