A
whole fleet--great line-of-battle ships, a crowd of transports under
sail and steam--lay at the mercy of the gale, which increased every
moment in force and fury. The waves rose with the wind, and the white
foam of "stupendous" breakers angrily lashed the rock-bound shore.
"Will you ride it out?" asked McKay of the captain, as the two stood
with the doctor crouched under the gunwale of the yacht and holding on
to the shrouds.
"Why shouldn't we?" replied Trejago, shortly, as though the question
was an insult to himself and his ship.
"That's more than some can say!" cried the doctor, pointing to one
great ship, the ill-fated _Prince_, which had evidently dragged her
anchors and was drifting perilously towards the cliffs.
"Our tackle is sound and the holding is good," said Trejago,
hopefully. "But we ought not to speak so loud. It may alarm Mrs.
Wilders."
"Does she not know our danger? Some one ought to tell her. You had
better go, McKay."
The aide-de-camp made rather a wry face. He was not fond of Mrs.
Wilders, whose manner, sometimes oily, sometimes supercilious, was too
changeable to please him, and he felt that the woman was not true.
However, he went down to the cabin, where he found Mrs. Wilders, with
a white, scared face, cowering in a corner as she listened to the
howling of the storm.
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