It would have been useless to speak, but he touched the arm of the
skipper and pointed to leeward. The skipper looked in this direction for
a minute and then gave the order for more sail to be put on the ship, to
endeavour to beat out in the teeth of the gale. But even when pressed to
the utmost it was evident to Malcolm that the force of the waves was
driving her faster towards the coast than she could make off it, and he
went below and told Ronald to come on deck.

"I would rather lie here," Ronald said.

"Nonsense, lad! The wind and spray will soon knock the sickness out of
you; and you will want all your wits about you, for it won't be many
hours before we are bumping on the sands, and stoutly built as the craft
is she won't hold together long in such a sea as this."

"Do you really mean it, Malcolm, or are you only trying to get me on
deck?"

"I mean it, lad. We are drifting fast upon the French coast, and there is
no hope of her clawing off in the teeth of such a gale as this."

The news aroused Ronald effectually. He had not suffered at all on the
voyage down from Glasgow, and he was already beginning to feel better
when Malcolm went down to call him. He was soon on deck holding on by the
bulwark.

"There it is, that long low black line; it looks a long way off because
the air is full of spray and the coast is low, but it's not more than
three or four miles; look at that broad belt of foam."