About the middle of the afternoon the wind rose again, and began to blow so violently that it was necessary to go ashore and camp.
But the wind rose, and the surf dashed so violently upon the muddy banks, that a landing could not be effected.
The wind rose higher and higher, and assailed the house with repeated shocks.
The wind rose, and the waves chopped angrily at unseen barriers.
AS the night closed in, the wind rose steadily, still blowing from the southwest.
In the evening the wind rose, and the sloop moved down the loch.
As the sun sank, the wind rose, and with it came rain—rain in sheets—the "wettest" kind of rain.
Now, as we drew nearer and nearer, the wind rose constantly.
When the rain ceased, the wind rose directly ahead, which confined us to that spot the rest of the day.
“This will never do, Tom,” said I, as the wind rose and roared with double fury.