Dunroe was on the east side, but the west coast was nearer, and he steered for that; but, feeling that this was cowardly, since he might get ashore and manage to walk to Dunroe, he altered his course, after a struggle with self, and sat with beating heart, slowly sailing on, with the water rising and washing about his legs.
That last tack seemed as if it would never end, and it was only by leaning sideways from time to time that he could catch sight of the coast he was approaching, the sail shutting off the greater part of his view.
To his dismay, he could see nothing but rocks, rocks everywhere, grey, and black, and ruddy golden with the weeds. The sea, too, foamed and danced about them. No cove floored with silver sand, no smooth river into which he could glide; and he shivered as he felt, by anticipation, the crash of the boat running on to the rocks at speed, throwing him out, and the retiring waves bearing him away, and then?
It was too horrible. But there were the rocks; he was getting nearer and nearer. He could hear the splashing of the water, and he must be ready to make a bold leap on to the nearest before the waves could catch him, and then he might escape.
Nearer and nearer; and it seemed a desperate thing to do—to run that boat ashore, but it was his only chance, for she was sinking fast, he was sure.
Nearer and nearer. A few more minutes, and he would be ashore, and—
He suddenly wrenched the tiller round, the boat ran up into the wind, careened over, and bore away on the other tack.
From Max Blande’s cowardice?
No; the sail had sprung aside for a moment, as his doubting hand had given way a little, slightly altering his course; and, as he gazed wildly ahead, there, half covered by the swelling canvas, and not a quarter of a mile away, the old castle of Dunroe towered up on its bold base of storm-beaten rock.
“Will the boat float long enough for me to get there?” Max asked himself.