The next morning, fifteen miles before reaching the ocean, its proximity was perceptible. They hastened on in order to reach Lake Salado, on the shores of the Atlantic, the same day. They were beginning to feel fatigued, when they perceived sand-hills that hid the foaming waves, and soon the prolonged murmur of the rising tide struck upon their ears.
“The ocean!” cried Paganel.
“Yes, the ocean!” replied Thalcave.
And these wanderers, whose strength had seemed almost about to fail, climbed the mounds with wonderful agility. But the darkness was profound, and their eyes wandered in vain over the gloomy expanse. They looked for the Duncan, but could not discern her.
“She is there, at all events,” said Glenarvan, “waiting for us.”
“We shall see her tomorrow,” replied MacNabb.
Tom Austin shouted seaward, but received no answer. The wind was very strong, and the sea tempestuous. The clouds were driving from the west, and the foaming crests of the waves broke over the beach in masses of spray. If the Duncan was at the appointed rendezvous, the lookout man could neither hear nor be heard. The coast afforded no shelter. There was no bay, no harbor, no cove; not even a creek. The beach consisted of long sandbanks that were lost in the sea, and the vicinity of which is more dangerous than that of the rocks in the face of wind and tide. These banks, in fact, increase the waves; the sea is peculiarly boisterous around them, and ships are sure to be lost if they strike on these bars in heavy storms.
It was therefore very natural that the Duncan, considering this coast dangerous, and knowing it to be without a port of shelter, kept at a distance. Captain Mangles must have kept to the windward as far as possible. This was Tom Austin’s opinion, and he declared that the Duncan was not less than five miles at sea.
The major, accordingly, persuaded his impatient relative to be resigned, as there was no way of dissipating the thick darkness. And why weary their eyes in scanning the gloomy horizon? He established a kind of encampment in the shelter of the sand-hills; the remains of the provisions furnished them a final repast; and then each, following the major’s example, hollowed out a comfortable bed in the sand, and, covering himself up to his chin, was soon wrapped in profound repose.
Glenarvan watched alone. The wind continued strong, and the ocean still showed the effects of the recent storm. The tumultuous waves broke at the foot of the sandbanks with the noise of thunder. Glenarvan could not convince himself that the Duncan was so near him; but as for supposing that she had not arrived at her appointed rendezvous, it was impossible, for such a ship there were no delays. The storm had certainly been violent and its fury terrible on the vast expanse of the ocean, but the yacht was a good vessel and her captain an able seaman; she must, therefore, be at her destination.
These reflections, however, did not pacify Glenarvan. When heart and reason are at variance, the latter is the weaker power. The lord of Malcolm Castle seemed to see in the darkness all those whom he loved, his dear Helena, Mary Grant, and the crew of the Duncan. He wandered along the barren coast which the waves covered with phosphorescent bubbles. He looked, he listened, and even thought that he saw a fitful light on the sea.
“I am not mistaken,” he soliloquized; “I saw a ship’s light, the Duncan’s. Ah! why cannot my eyes pierce the darkness?”
Then an idea occurred to him. Paganel called himself a nyctalops; he could see in the night.
The geographer was sleeping like a mole in his bed, when a strong hand dragged him from his sandy couch.
“Who is that?” cried he.
“I.”
“Who?”
“Glenarvan. Come, I need your eyes.”
“My eyes?” replied Paganel, rubbing them vigorously.
“Yes, your eyes, to distinguish the Duncan in this darkness. Come.”
“And why my eyes?” said Paganel to himself, delighted, nevertheless, to be of service to Glenarvan.
He rose, shaking his torpid limbs in the manner of one awakened from sleep, and followed his friend along the shore. Glenarvan requested him to survey the dark horizon to seaward. For several moments Paganel conscientiously devoted himself to this task.
“Well, do you perceive nothing?” asked Glenarvan.
“Nothing. Not even a cat could see two paces before her.”
“Look for a red or a green light, on the starboard or the larboard side.”
“I see neither a red nor a green light. All is darkness,” replied Paganel, whose eyes were thereupon involuntarily closed.
For half an hour he mechanically followed his impatient friend in absolute silence, with his head bowed upon his breast, sometimes raising it suddenly. He tottered along with uncertain steps, like those of a drunken man. At last Glenarvan, seeing that the geographer was in a state of somnambulism, took him by the arm, and, without waking him, led him back to his sand-hole, and comfortably deposited him therein.
At break of day they were all started to their feet by the cry—
“The Duncan! the Duncan!”
“Hurrah! hurrah!” replied Glenarvan’s companions, rushing to the shore.
The Duncan was indeed in sight. Five miles distant, the yacht was sailing under low pressure, her mainsails carefully reefed, while her smoke mingled with the mists of the morning. The sea was high, and a vessel of her tonnage could not approach the shore without danger.
Glenarvan, provided with Paganel’s telescope, watched the movements of the Duncan. Captain Mangles could not have perceived them, for he did not approach, but continued to coast along with only a reefed topsail.
At this moment Thalcave, having loaded his carbine heavily, fired it in the direction of the yacht. They gazed and listened. Three times the Indian’s gun resounded, waking the echoes of the shore.
At
