The Signor Grimaldi rightly deemed the circumstances grave, and, calling to him his friend and Sigismund, he communicated the apprehensions of the monk and Maso.  A braver man than Melchior de Willading did not dwell in all Switzerland, but he did not hear the gloomy predictions of the Genoese without shaking in every limb.

“My poor enfeebled Adelheid!” he said, yielding to a father’s tenderness:  “what will become of this frail plant, if exposed to a tempest in an unsheltered bark?”

“She will be with her father, and with her father’s friend,” answered the maiden herself; for the narrow limits to which they were necessarily confined, and the sudden burst of feeling in the parent, which had rendered him incautious in pitching his voice, made her the mistress of the cause of alarm.  “I have heard enough of what the good Father Xavier and this mariner have said, to know that we are in a situation that might be better; but am I not with tried friends?  I know already what the Herr Sigismund can do in behalf of my life, and come what may, we have all a beneficent guardian in One, who will not leave any of us to perish without remembering we are his children.”

“This girl shames us all,” said the Signor Grimaldi; “but it is often thus with these fragile beings, who rise the firmest and noblest in moments when prouder man begins to despair.  They put their trust in God, who is a prop to sustain even those who are feebler than our gentle Adel held.  But we will not exaggerate the causes of apprehension, which, after all, may pass away like many other threatening dangers, and leave us hours of felicitation and laughter in return for a few minutes of fright.”

“Say, rather of thanksgiving,” observed the clavier, “for the aspect of the heavens is getting to be fearfully solemn.  Thou, who art a mariner—­hast thou nothing to suggest?”

“We have the simple expedient of our sweeps, father; but, after neglecting their use so long, it is now too late to have recourse to them.  We could not reach Vevey by such means, with this bark loaded to the water’s edge, before the night would change, and, the water once fairly in motion, they could not be used at all.”

“But we have our sails,” put in the Genoese; “they at least may do us good service when the wind shall come.”

Maso shook his head, but he made no answer.  After a brief pause, in which he seemed to study the heavens still more closely, he went to the spot where the patron yet lay lost in sleep, and shook him rudely.—­“Ho!  Baptiste! awake! there is need here of thy counsel and of thy commands.”

The drowsy owner of the bark rubbed his eyes, and slowly regained the use of his faculties.

“There is not a breath of wind,” he muttered; “why didst awake me, Maso?—­One that hath led thy life should know that sleep is sweet to those who toil.”

“Ay, ’tis their advantage over the pampered and idle.  Look at the heavens, man, and let us know what thou thinkest of their appearance.  Is there the stuff in thy Winkelried to ride out a storm like this we may have to encounter?”