They began to talk of what had caused the wind. "It was the blessed St. Patrick," said Killip. St. Patrick was the patron saint of that sea, and Killip was a Catholic and more than half an Irishman.
"St. Patrick be—" cried Davy Cain, with a scornful laugh. They got to high words, and at length almost to blows.
Old Quilleash had been at the tiller. His grisly face had grown ghastly again. "Drop it, men," he cried, in a voice of fear. "Look yander! D'ye see what's coming?"
The men looked toward the west. The long, thin cloud which Danny knew as the cat's-tail was scudding fast in the line of their Starboard quarter.
"Make all snug," cried Davy.
A storm was coming. It was very near; in ten minutes it was upon them. It was a terrific tempest, and they knew now that they were in the down-stream.
The men stared once more into each others' faces. Their quips were gone; their hopeful spirits had broken down.
"God, it's running a ten knots' tide," shouted Quilleash.
"And we're driving before it—dead on for Peel," answered Davy, with an appalling look of fear toward the west, where the wind was seen to be churning the long waves into foam.
Danny saw it all, but there was no agony in his face and no cry of dread on his lips. "I think at whiles I'd like to die in a big sea like that." His despair was courage now.