But the Aegean is a tricky sea, and furnishes many surprises, as St. Paul knew, and, when not more than ten miles from the shelter of the Cretan coast, it came on to blow from the southwest with such violence that we were unable to beat up to the shelter of the Cretan highlands, and under a mere rag of canvas had to run before the wind, wherever it might drive us.  I was the only one on board who knew anything of the Archipelago, and I had to decide the course, which it was possible to vary only a point or two either way, for the yacht would only run free, or, under favorable weather, with a beam wind.  I had to guess our course, which from my knowledge of the islands I saw could only be directly to Milo, about forty miles away.  If we hit the harbor, well and good, for it gives excellent shelter in all weather, but if we missed it we had two chances—­to find an opening between the islands and reefs, or to hit a lee shore and go on it, for there was no hope of clawing off.  I set the course, left the boys in charge, and went to bed.  The boat was jumping through the sea with a shock at each wave she struck, as if she had leaped out of the water, and it seemed as if she must be showing her keel with each jump.  I awoke in the night and, getting out of my berth to take a look outside, put my feet in the water which had risen to cover the cabin floor.  All hands at the pumps kept it down, but it was clear that the old craft, nearly twenty years older than when I first saw her, was no longer seaworthy, and we had no hope of the weather lifting, for these southwesterly gales generally blow at least a day.  I went back to bed again, for there was nothing to be done but wait on fortune, and be glad that we should make Milo by daylight.

My previsions justified themselves, for in the course of the afternoon we made the entrance to the harbor, and ran in before such a sea as I never saw in those waters before.  The waves broke against the great pillar of rock that stands in the entrance of the harbor, sending the spray to its very summit, and as we ran to the anchorage off the little port the whole population poured down to see the arrival, wondering what sent the tiny craft out in such weather.  The old pilot said that it had been the worst gale of forty years, which I could well believe.  The weather having abated, we ran over to Crete, where I found the island laboring with reforms, a constitution, and a Christian governor, in the person of my old friend Photiades Pasha.  We were invited to dine at the Konak, and of the company was Edhem Pasha, a charming, intelligent, and thoroughly civilized Turk, by far the most liberal and progressive of his race I had met, with the single exception of A’ali Pasha.  We played at “Admiration” that evening, a game which puts a series of questions as to the qualities one admires.  In reply to the question “What kind of courage do you admire?” the pasha, turning to me, replied, “I admire the courage of that gentleman in going to sea in so small a boat in such weather,” and he admitted laughingly that his courage was not at that level.