bear up again, whilst this wind lasted.

The Atlantic coast of Morocco is an indented or waving line, and there
are only two or three ports deserving the name of harbours--harbours of
refuge from these storms. Unlike the western coast of Ireland, so finely
indented by the Atlantic wave, this portion of the Morocco coast is
rounded off by the ocean.

Our excitement was great. The capitano began yelping like a cowardly
school-boy, who has been well punched by a lesser and more courageous
antagonist. Immediately I got on deck, I produced an English book, which
mentioned the port of Mogador as a "good" port.

"Per Dio Santo!" exclaimed our capitano; "yes, for the English it _is_ a
good port--you dare devils at sea--for them it _is_ a good port. The
open sea, with a gale of wind, is a good port for the _maladetti_
English."

Irritated at this extreme politeness to our gallant tars, who have so
long "braved the battle and the breeze," I did not trouble farther the
dauntless Genoese, who certainly was not destined to become a Columbus.
Now the men began to snivel and yelp, following the example of their
commander. "We won't go into the port, Santa Virgine! We won't go in to
be shivered to pieces on the rocks." At this moment our experienced
capitano fancied we had got into shoal-water; the surf was seen running
in foaming circles, as if in a whirlpool. Now, indeed, our capitano did
yelp; now did the crew yelp, invoking all the saints of the Roman
calendar, instead of attending to the ship. [14] Here was a scene of
indescribable confusion. Our ship was suddenly put round and back.