“And where shall we be then?” asked my Lord, querulously.
“Rayther hard to tell,” said the pilot, laughing. “If she be as good a sea-boat as they say, and that we don't carry away any of our spars, we may run for Cove. I take it—”
“For Cove! Gracious mercy! and if she be not as good a vessel as it is said she is, sir, what then, pray?”
The pilot made no reply, but gave orders to set the jib, as she was laboring too much by the head.
The wind increased, and with it the sea, which, dividing at the bow, fell in great cataracts over the vessel, sweeping along the entire deck at every plunge she gave.
“I wish she were a little deeper in the water,” whispered Sickleton to Cashel. “We have n't within fifteen tons of our ballast on board. But she 's a sweet craft, ain't she? Keep her, there—steady, man.”
“We could n't stand round in stays, and bear up for the harbor?” asked Cashel, on whom Lord Kilgoff's face of misery had made a strong impression.
“Impossible! At least the pilot, who knows this coast well, says there is a shore current here runs eight knots.”
“What shall we do with him? He 'll scarce live through the night.”
“Let us get him down below, and, once snug in a berth, he 'll fall asleep, and forget everything.”