I saw drops of perspiration standing on my father's forehead, and was deeply pained to see his anguish of mind, without being able to do anything to help him.
A little while after he went out into the office with a candle and came back with an old large-type prayer-book, in which he turned to a prayer and a hymn to be sung during a storm at sea.
All the servants without being called, gathered in the parlour for family worship.
My father sat with the prayer-book in his great rough hands, which he had folded on the table before him, between the two candles.

First he read the prayer, and then sang all the verses of the hymn, while those of us who knew the tune joined by degrees in the refrain.

It was altogether as if we were holding prayers in a ship's cabin while the vessel was in danger, and my father must have had the idea from some such scene in his hard youth.

During prayers we all thought the storm abated a little, and that it only began again after they were ended.
We found the elder Martinez on his knees by his bedside, perpetually crossing himself before a crucifix.

He had less reason for anxiety than we, for his brig lay with extra moorings under land in a little creek sheltered from the wind and waves.