I
saw some of the men clinging to the boat and one or two scrambling on to
her keel, but what chanced to them and the others I do not know, who had
rushed to the steering gear to set the ship upon her course again,
lest her fate should be that of the boat, or we should go ashore and be
captured by those who galloped on the bank, or be drowned. This was the
last I ever saw or heard of the crew of the _Blanche_.
The ship's bow came round and, driven by the ever-increasing gale, she
rushed on her course towards the sea, bearing us with her, two weak and
lonely men.
"Kari," I said, "what shall we do? Try to run ashore, or sail on?"
He thought awhile then answered, pointing to those who galloped, now but
tiny figures on the distant bank:
"Master, yonder is death, sure death; and yonder," here he pointed to
the sea, "is death--perhaps. Master, you have a God, and I, Kari, have
another God, mayhap same God with different name. I say--Trust our Gods
and sail on, for Gods better than men. If we die in water, what matter?
Water softer than rope, but I think not die.
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