The young Frenchman’s cabin door opened and Alphonse crawled out on his hands and knees. He climbed up the slope of the deck to the side of the table at which I sat, and gazed at me with an ashen countenance.
‘This is terrible!’ he cried.
‘What has happened?’ I asked.
‘A frightful storm has burst upon us!’ he answered. ‘Blessed Virgin! why does not the brick lift herself out of the water?’ and here he made the sign of the Cross upon his breast, which led me to suppose that, like many other Frenchmen, and like many other people who are not Frenchmen, Alphonse was an infidel only in fine weather.
We remained seated, hearkening with terrified ears to the uproar on deck and to the thunderous beating of the sea against the little vessel. After some while the brig grew more upright, the halloaing above ceased, and there was nothing to be heard save the creaking of the old structure as it pitched and wallowed, and a subdued noise of angry, raving, foaming waters.
The light in the hatchway was eclipsed, and the immense mass of Captain Regnier descended the steps. His coat was streaming, and on his gaining the cabin he pulled off his sodden red cap and flung it with a furious gesture into a corner.
‘Oh, uncle, what is the matter?’ cried Alphonse, clasping his hands.
‘Matter!’ answered Captain Regnier, ‘why here is a dead foul wind blowing strong enough, if it lasts for twenty-four hours, to lose us every league we have gained in the last three days.’
‘Is there any danger?’ asked Alphonse.