“Pace to him now!” said the sailor, as he crossed himself, and went over a prayer.
The wind now raged fearfully; claps, like the report of cannon, struck the frail boat at intervals, and laid her nearly keel uppermost; while the mast bent like a whip, and every rope creaked and strained to its last endurance. The deafening noise close at hand told where the waves were beating on the rock-bound coast, or surging with the deep growl of thunder through many a cavern. They rarely spoke, save when some emergency called for a word. Each sat wrapped up in his own dark reveries, and unwilling to break them. Hours passed thus,—long, dreary hours of darkness, that seemed like years of suffering, so often in this interval did life hang in the balance.
As morning began to break with a grayish blue light to the westward, the wind slightly abated, blowing more steadily, too, and less in sudden gusts; while the sea rolled in large round waves, unbroken above, and showing no crest of foam.
“Do you know where we are?” asked Harcourt.
“Yes, sir; we 're off the Rooks' Point, and if we hold on well, we 'll soon be in slacker water.”
“Could the boy have reached this, think you?”
The man shook his head mournfully, without speaking.
“How far are we from Glencore?”
“About eighteen miles, sir; but more by land.”
“You can put me ashore, then, somewhere hereabouts.”