The storm still raged outside, the waves thundered against the rocky shore, and the winds howled among the pines that crowned the hilltops.
But the yacht rocked gently upon the swell that was driven in through the narrow channel; there was plenty of water beneath her keel, and though lofty, vine-clad cliffs were above them upon all sides, the crew knew that their vessel was safe.
Realizing this, all the guests had gone into the large and brilliantly lighted cabin, and thither General Peyton had followed with the young pilot.
The youth had urged against it, saying that he was wet, barefooted, and hardly more than half-dressed, but General Peyton had said:
“The Secretary of the Navy wishes to see you.”
Standing in his wet clothing before that august group gathered there, Mark Merrill was modest of mien, yet not abashed.
“You wished to see me, sir?” he said, bowing to the Secretary.
“Yes, my lad, sit down.”
“Ah, sir, I am not fit to be here, looking as I do; and I am anxious to return home, as my mother will be expecting me.”
“You live near here, then?”