A cry of terror ran through the brig, all for a moment forgetting their own danger in the horror of the scene.
“Silence, fore and aft,” shouted the old captain, his grey hairs streaming in the wind. “Heave the brig to, Mr Lowe. This is no place for you, lady; let the steward lead you below. All danger is over.”
“Land ho!” shouted one of the men forward, as Isabel disappeared down the hatchway.
“Where away?” asked the master.
“Broad on the port bow,” was the answering shout.
“It is the high land of Cape Saint Vincent,” said Captain Weber, shading his eyes, and gazing intently in the direction named.
The wind was increasing in violence, and the barometer in the captain’s cabin still falling. The brig had been kept away, and was now running free, but the gale was increasing rapidly.
“See that the fore and main-staysails are properly bent,” called the captain.
“Ay, ay, sir,” came the ready response, as his officer stepped hastily forward.
It is always a ticklish thing to heave a vessel to when there is a heavy sea running. The brig’s sails were reduced until she was stripped to her close-reefed main-topsails, her fore-staysail was then set, and the two officers exchanged places, the old captain sprang forward, and holding on by the weather fore-shrouds, gazed wistfully over the ocean, while his mate stood near the man-at-wheel, waiting the coming order.