Three hours later, for the wind had dropped considerably, the land loomed up. It was unfamiliar ground. Hartland Point, which Desmond had noticed on the outward passage, was nowhere to be seen. Right ahead was a bold promontory crowned with a few scanty ruins.
He called Truscott from the cabin.
"What's that point, sir?" he asked.
Truscott gave a low whistle.
"You're a little out of your course, my lad," he declared. "That's Tintagel. Bude is twelve miles to the nor'-east'ard. Bring her close to the wind. We may fetch it without tacking, but I'm doubtful."
It was Desmond's lack of navigation that had been responsible for the error. Simply reversing the compass course for the return run was not enough. He had omitted to take into consideration the strong tide running to the sou'-west, with the result that the yacht had made her landfall a dozen miles to lee'ard of her destination.
"Live and learn," thought Desmond philosophically. "I'll know better next time."
The Spanker was now close-hauled on the port tack, and, although she was able to lay on her course, the wind had fallen so light that she was hardly able to stem the adverse tide.
"It doesn't very much matter, my lad," remarked Truscott. "You wouldn't have been able to get the Spanker into harbour until close on high-water. Better keep on sailing than lying at anchor in a ground-swell."
"That's all very well," added Wilde, "but how about my collar-bone?"