The "Chief" had piped up "that the
engines would be out of her," if they shipped another sea like the
last. Prayer in the cabin, curses on the deck, fear in the hold,
and misery everywhere; the stout Stella struggled shoreward, toward
her dangerous landing at the pier, whose sheer sixty feet of masonry
wall was now lashed by the wild waves. Black waters rose and fell
in great surges. The shivering coastguards in the line of garrisoned
martello towers, vowed that no such night had ever been seen since
the "Great Storm."
Prince Djiddin had also given up all hope of the return of the
faithful Moonshee whose plea of "business," had led him away to the
society of his brave and beautiful bride. There was but one more
day of "home life" before resuming the hoodwinking of the mentally
excited historian of Thibet. "It's a fearful night on the Channel,"
thought Major Hardwicke as he waited in vain for Simpson's return
to act as valet de chambre.
"God help all at sea! It's a fearful night," Prince Djiddin murmured
as he closed his eyes, little reckoning that the beautiful girl
whom he loved more than life was tempest-tossed off the Corbieres,
while poor Mattie Jones literally "sickened on the heaving wave."
The great house was lone and still, and for the first time Prince
Djiddin reflected upon the exposed situation of the old miser's
home. "Poor old chap," he muttered, as he closed his eyes.
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