"Thou hadst better come aft, brother Malachi," called Wulfstan, who, now that he had accomplished his object, was glad the good monk was coming too; he always felt comfortable when the kind monk was near, because he never scolded him, or laughed at him, but quietly pointed out where he was wrong very patiently.
Darkness had by this time become complete, and there was nothing for Ceolwulf to steer by except a vague kind of instinct that told him to keep the sail as full as it was when they last saw land; he had then put the head of the boat pointing directly for the spot he wished to make for, and he argued that if he did not draw the wind either too much on her starboard beam, or, on the other hand, let it jibe the sail over, he must make land where he wanted in about three hours' time. He had not calculated that it was possible for the wind to shift.
The men were curling themselves up to go to sleep, and Malachi was murmuring some words to himself.
"What sayest thou, brother Malachi?" asked Wulfstan.
"I was asking the Almighty to preserve us through the dangers of the night, Wulfstan."
"But there are no dangers."
"There are always dangers on the sea."
"Not if thou takest care and keepest a good look-out."
"But thou mayest not know thy way, storms may rise, the boat may spring a leak, or she may strike on a rock."
"How can she spring a leak if she has just been mended? and how can she strike on a rock when she is ever so far from shore? I believe thou art frightened, brother Malachi; but there's no need, there is nothing to be afraid of. Come and sit by me; I will take care of thee."