“Hush, my child!” said he soothingly, leading her towards her state-room and opening the door, “go in to your cabin and pray!”
And thus the weary night passed away.
Chapter Eleven.
In Unknown Latitudes.
When daylight came, through the exertions of Ben Boltrope, the carpenter, and a couple of the crew sent to aid him, the cuddy offered a more presentable appearance than it had done just immediately after the midnight scare; for, the table and seats were fixed back in their original positions, the débris cleared away, and a portion of the skylight restored—all of which so brightened up the interior that what had passed but a few hours before seemed but a dream, at first, to those of the passengers who turned out early. The continuous sustained roar of the wind and waves had so drowned the noise of the men hammering and moving about that the repairs appeared to have been accomplished by magic.
As soon as Mr Meldrum went on deck, however, he could see little alteration for the better there.
The great rolling billows, as Maury has described them, were running high and fast, tossing their white caps in the air, looking like the green hills of a western prairie capped with snow, and chasing each other in sport; while the wind was still blowing a hurricane, and the ship, resembling a crippled bird with her foretop-mast gone, was running now before the gale under a single storm-staysail, that looked no bigger than an ordinary sized pocket-handkerchief, at a greater rate of speed than she would have done in a stiff breeze with all her canvas spread.
The outlook around, too, was by no means cheering.