hat he had
come down below to close Mr. Burns' port in case it should come on to
rain. "He did not know that I was in the cabin," he added.

"How does it look outside?" I asked him.

"Very black, indeed, sir. There is something in it for certain."

"In what quarter?"

"All round, sir."

I repeated idly: "All round. For certain," with my elbows on the table.

Ransome lingered in the cabin as if he had something to do there, but
hesitated about doing it. I said suddenly:

"You think I ought to be on deck?"

He answered at once but without any particular emphasis or accent: "I
do, sir."

I got to my feet briskly, and he made way for me to go out. As I passed
through the lobby I heard Mr. Burns' voice saying:

"Shut the door of my room, will you, steward?" And Ransome's rather
surprised: "Certainly, sir."

I thought that all my feelings had been dulled into complete
indifference. But I found it as trying as ever to be on deck. The
impenetrable blackness beset the ship so close that it seemed that
by thrusting one's hand over the side one could touch some unearthly
substance. There was in it an effect of inconceivable terror and of
inexpressible mystery. The few stars overhead shed a dim light upon
the ship alone, with no gleams of any kind upon the water, in detached
shafts piercing an atmosphere which had turned to soot. It was something
I had never seen before, giving no hint of the direction from which any
change would come, the closing in of a menace from all sides.

There was still no man at the helm. The immobility of all things was
perfect. If the air had turned black, the sea, for all I knew, might
have turned solid. It was no good looking in any direction, watching
for any sign, speculating upon the nearness of the moment. When the time
came the blackness would overwhelm silently the bit of starlight falling
upon the ship, and the end of all things would come without a sigh,
stir, or murmur of any kind, and all our hearts would cease to beat like
run-down clocks.

It was impossible to shake off that sense of finality. The quietness
that came over me was like a foretaste of annihilation. It gave me a
sort of comfort, as though my soul had become suddenly reconciled to an
eternity of blind stillness.

The seaman's instinct alone survived whole in my moral dissolution. I
descended the ladder to the quarter-deck. The starlight seemed to die
out before reaching that spot, but when I asked quietly: "Are