"Mary says you must stay below. Never mind what it is. You are not to go on deck again."
"Very well."
He came into the saloon—all wet and dripping, but exceedingly pleased to have been thus thought of—and then he said in a tragic whisper:
"We are in for it at last."
"The equinoctials?"
"Yes."
So we turned in again, leaving the White Dove to haul and strain at her cables all through the night—swaying, pitching, groaning, creaking, as if she would throw herself free of her anchors altogether, and sweep away over to Glenelg.
Then, in the early morning, the gale had apparently increased. While the women-folk remained in their cabin, the others of us adventured up the companion-way, and had a look out. It was not a cheerful sight. All around the green sea was being torn along by the heavy wind; the white crests of the waves being whirled up in smoke; the surge springing high on the rocks over by Glenelg; the sky almost black overhead; the mountains that ought to have been quite near us invisible behind the flying mists of the rain. Then how the wind howled! Ordinarily the sound was a low, moaning bass—even lower than the sound of the waves; but then again it would increase and rise into a shrill whistle, mostly heard, one would have said, from about the standing rigging and the crosstrees. But our observation of these phenomena was brief, intermittent, and somewhat ignominious. We had to huddle in the companion-way like Jacks-in-the-box; for the incautiously protruded head was liable to be hit by a blast of rain that came along like a charge of No. 6 shot. Then we tumbled below for breakfast, and the scared women-folk made their appearance.
"The equinoctials, Angus?" said Queen Titania, with some solemnity of face.
"Oh, I suppose so," said he cheerfully.