The boat was in position to bring everything into view, and he spoke to the rowers:
"A storm is rising."
They ceased work, and looked over their shoulders, each for himself.
"A blow from the sea, and it comes fast. What we shall do is for my Lord to say," one of them returned.
The Prince grew anxious for Lael. What was done must be for her—he had no thought else.
A cloud was forming over the whole northeastern quarter of the sky, along the horizon black, overhead a vast gray wave, in its heart copper-hued, seething, interworking, now a distended sail, now a sail bursted; and the wind could be heard whipping the shreds into fleece, and whirling them a confusion of vaporous banners. Yet glassy, the water reflected the tint of the cloud. The hush holding it was like the drawn breath of a victim waiting the first turn of the torturous wheel.
The Asiatic shore offered the Prince a long stretch, and he persisted in coasting it until the donjon of the White Castle—that terror to Christians—arrested his eye. There were houses much nearer, some of them actually overhanging the water; but the donjon seemed specially inviting; at all events, he coolly reflected, if the Governor of the Castle denied him refuge, the little river near by known as the Sweet Waters of Asia would receive him, and getting under its bank, he might hope to escape the fury of the wind and waves. He shouted resolutely:
"To the White Castle! Make it before the wind strikes, my men, and I will double your hire."
"We may make it," the rower answered, somewhat sullenly, "but"—
"What?" asked the Prince.