Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

In which the old Man launches forth into his favourite Theme, and relates a Story about a queer Clie

           Therewasanothervesselbeforethem,toilingandlabouringinthehowlingstorm;hercanvasflutteringinribbonsfromthemast,andherdeckthrongedwithfigureswhowerelashedtothesides,overwhichhugewaveseveryinstantburst,sweepingawaysomedevotedcreaturesintothefoamingsea.Onwardtheybore,amidsttheroaringmassofwater,withaspeedandforcewhichnothingcouldresist;andstrikingthestemoftheforemostvessel,crushedherbeneaththeirkeel.Fromthehugewhirlpoolwhichthesinkingwreckoccasioned,aroseashrieksoloudandshrillthedeath-cryofahundreddrowningcreatures,blendedintoonefierceyellthatitrungfarabovethewar-cryoftheelements,andechoed,andre-echoedtillitseemedtopierceair,sky,andocean.Butwhatwasthatthatoldgrayheadthatroseabovethewater’ssurface,andwithlooksofagony,andscreamsforaid,buffetedwiththewaves!Onelook,andhehadsprungfromthevessel’sside,andwithvigorousstrokeswasswimmingtowardsit.Hereachedit;hewascloseuponit.TheywereHISfeatures.Theoldmansawhimcoming,andvainlystrovetoeludehisgrasp.Butheclaspedhimtight,anddraggedhimbeneaththewater.Down,downwithhim,fiftyfathomsdown;hisstrugglesgrewfainterandfainter,untiltheywhollyceased.Hewasdead;hehadkilledhim,andhadkepthisoath.

           ‘Hewastraversingthescorchingsandsofamightydesert,barefootandalone.

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