Down one of these, with the fiery pace of
a quarrel from a crossbow, ran a frigate right athwart our course.
"Are they mad?" some voice exclaimed from our deck. "Do they woo their
ruin?" But in a moment, as she was close upon us, some impulse of a
heady current or local vortex gave a wheeling bias to her course,
and off she forged without a shock. As she ran past us, high aloft
amongst the shrouds stood the lady of the pinnace. The deeps in malice
opened ahead to receive her, the billows were fierce to catch her.
But far away she was borne upon the desert spaces of the sea:
whilst still by sight I followed her, she ran before the howling gale,
chased by angry sea-birds and by maddening billows: still I saw her,
as at the moment when she ran past us, standing amongst the shrouds,
with her white draperies streaming before the wind. There she stood,
with hair dishevelled, one hand clutched amongst the tackling---rising,
sinking, fluttering, trembling, praying---there for leagues I saw her as
she stood, raising at intervals one hand to heaven, amidst the fiery
crests of the pursuing waves and the raving of the storm; until at last,
upon a sound from afar of malicious laughter and mockery, all was hidden
forever in driving showers; and afterwards, but when I know not, nor how.
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