“Musha! we've wives and childer,” said a third, “but she's worth a thousand of us!”
And thus, in broken whispers, they spoke; not a thought save of her, not a care save for her safety. They prayed, too, fervently, and her name was in all their supplications.
“She's singing to herself in her sleep,” whispered Loony. And the rough sailors hushed to hear her.
Louder and louder, however, grew the storm, sheets of spray and drift falling over the boat in showers, and all her timbers quivering as she labored in the stormy sea. A sailor whispered something in Loony's ear, and he grumbled out in reply,—“Why would I wake her up?”
“But I am awake, Loony,” said Mary, in a low, calm voice, “and I see all our danger; but I see, too, that you are meeting it like brave men, and, better still, like good ones.”
“The men was thinking we ought to bear up for Innish-more, Miss Mary,” said Loony, as though ashamed of offering on his own part such counsel.
“You'll do what you think best and safest for us all, Loony.”
“But you were always the captain, miss, when you were aboord!” replied he, with an effort to smile.
“And so I should be now, Loony, but that my heart is too full to be as calm and resolute as I ought to be. This poor thing had not been here now, but for me.” And she wrapped her shawl around Joan as she spoke. “Maybe it's anxiety, perhaps fatigue, but I have not my old courage to-night!”
“Faix! it will never be fear that will distress you!” said he.