About 5.30 p.m. our
last guests departed, and all was ready for a start; but, alas! we had
to wait for an absent steward, who had gone in search of the always
late linen, that plague of the poor yachtsman's life when he has a
large party on board. The sun was sinking fast, the wind was blowing
fresh and fair, and if we did not start soon it would be impossible to
do so at all, and a night's work of more than 120 miles would be lost.
At last the welcome boat was seen coming from the shore; we unmoored,
and went ahead for about an hour. But the light gradually faded away;
it became impossible to distinguish the beacon; the sand banks are
numerous, and there are no lights. It was only endangering the ship
and the lives of all on board to proceed; so the order was reluctantly
given, 'Hard a-port.' Round she went in her own length almost, and
very soon we let go the anchor just outside our old moorings, and
spent the night, after all, in the harbour of Alexandria.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
'HOME.'
_She comes, majestic with her swelling sails,_
_The gallant bark along her watery way,_
_Homeward she drives before the favouring gales._
_Now flitting at their length the streamers fly,_
_And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze._
_Wednesday, May 2nd_.
Pages:
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623