Then both parents made strides to reach the vineyard on the
hill.
The water rushed against them with such violence that they nearly sank
with their load. The night was dark, for the moon had long since gone
under and heavy clouds obscured the stars. The rain was falling in
torrents and a dreadful wind raged about them. The water so filled the
streets and by-ways that the Swifts thought each moment would be their
last. The children, half asleep, were crying loudly. From each house
still louder cries reached their ears.
In the distance, lamps began to flash their lights. Hundreds of people
could be seen striving with all their might to reach the hill. On all
sides difficulties and dangers confronted them.
Near the low window of a little hut, there stood a weeping mother with
her children. She passed them, one after the other, to her husband, who
stood in water up to his waist and could scarcely keep an upright
position.
In another place, grown sons were carrying an invalid mother, fleeing
with difficulty on account of their heavy burden. Some brave, humane men
hurried along with boats and brought them safely to the hill.
Mrs. Swift, with a child on each arm, was overthrown. Her husband,
equally burdened with two other children, could render her no
assistance. Two stalwart men rushed toward her, however, and brought
mother, children, and father to the neighboring hill.
Some men gathered sticks, and after many futile attempts at last started
a fire on the hill, so that the drenched people might dry themselves.
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