This thought filled him with a momentary despair, for there seemed no
possibility of avoiding the impending fate. Then his eyes fell on a
pair of oars lashed, together with their metal rowlocks, to the sides
of his raft. In another minute he had shipped these and was pulling
with all his might away from that ill-omened neighbourhood.
The progress of his clumsy craft was painfully slow; but it did move,
and at the end the dreaded ice monster was beyond both sight and
hearing. The exercise of rowing had warmed Cabot as well as
temporarily diverted his mind from a contemplation of the terrible
scenes through which he had so recently passed. Now, however, as he
rested on his oars, a full sense of his wretched plight came back to
him, and he grew sick at heart as he realised how forlorn was his
situation. He wondered if he could survive the night that was rapidly
closing in on him, and, if he did, whether the morrow would find him
any better off. He had no idea of the direction in which wind and
current were drifting him, whether further out to sea or towards the
land. He was again shivering with cold, he was hungry and thirsty, and
so filled with terror at the black waters leaping towards him from all
sides that he finally flung himself face downward on the wet platform
to escape from seeing them.
When he next lifted his head he found himself in utter darkness,
through which he fancied he could still hear the sound of waters
dashing against frigid cliffs, and with an access of terror he once
more sprang to his oars.
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