In spite of the tempest, and the dangers that the yacht was in, for night was coming on and the wind showed no signs of going down, this man was so calm and secure that the sailors of the yacht, who were beginning to show signs of anxiety, brightened up and were quite cheerful again. It was as if the pilot had brought with him this sudden sense of security, as the arrival of the family physician brings confidence and hope to an anxious mother.
As I stood near the bulwarks on which I had been leaning so as not to be thrown down by the plunging of the ship, I had not yet had a good look at the pilot, but he soon came near me.
The man was apparently about forty. He was tall, thin, and bony; his face very sunburnt, his cheeks hollow; his eyes were green, and his hair black and very thick. He wore a Scotch cap of red and blue plaid woollen stuff, which was pulled down to his eyebrows. A cape of heavy brown cloth, dripping with salt water, hung down to the tops of his great fisherman's boots, and completed his costume.
It seemed to me that I had met this man before. I had a vague remembrance of just such a sinister face, though I found it impossible to recall the circumstances or place of our meeting; but there came over me an uncomfortable feeling which I attributed to my feverish condition.
"Can we get in to anchor at Malta to-night, pilot?" said Williams to him.
After having looked at the compass and questioned the state of the sky, the sea, and the wind, the pilot answered in very good English: "We might get to an island to-night, but not to the island of Malta, sir."
"No!" cried Williams; "and why not?"
"Because you can't, it is impossible," said the pilot, carelessly.
"But," continued Williams, "though the wind is very strong, and blowing from the north, it is not strong enough to send us ashore. The yacht sails beautifully, she rises with every wave."
"Could she resist a current that runs seven or eight knots an hour, sir, and that driving us right ashore the same way the wind is doing?"