But Martin had covered his eyes with his hand, while his lips murmured and moved rapidly.
“May I never, but they 're letting out the reef!” screamed the old man in terror.
“More sail, and in such a sea!” cried Martin, in a voice of horror.
“Aye, and right, too,” said the fisherman, after a pause; “she 's rising lighter over the sea, and steers better, besides. It's Miss Mary has the tiller,” added the old fellow, with a smile. “I 'll lay a shilling she 's singing this minute.”
“You think so,” said Martin, glad to catch at this gleam of confidence.
“I know it well, your honor. I remember one day, off Lettermullen, it was worse than this. Hurrah!” screamed he out suddenly; “she took in a great sea that time!”
“Get out a boat, Peter, at once; what are we standing here for?” cried Martin, angrily. “Man a boat this instant.”
“Sure no boat could get out to sea with this wind, sir,” remonstrated the old man, mildly; “she'd never leave the surf if she had forty men at her!”
“Then what's to be done?”
“Just let them alone; themselves two know as well what to do as any pair in Ireland, and are as cool besides. There, now, she 's putting her about, as I said, and she 'll run for the creek.” The frail boat, a mere speck upon the dark green ocean, seemed now to fly, as with a slackened sheet she darted over the water. Her course was bent for a little cove concealed from view by a rugged promontory of rock, up which the old fisherman now clambered with the alacrity of a younger man. Martin tried to follow; but overcome by emotion, he was unable, and sat down upon a ledge of rock, burying his face within his hands.