ptain West strolled up
and down.

It was at this stage in the gale that he unbent sufficiently to tell me
that we were going through a circular storm and that the wind was boxing
the compass. I did notice that he kept his gaze pretty steadily fixed on
the overcast, cloud-driven sky. At last, when it seemed the wind could
not possibly blow more fiercely, he found in the sky what he sought. It
was then that I first heard his voice--a sea-voice, clear as a bell,
distinct as silver, and of an ineffable sweetness and volume, as it might
be the trump of Gabriel. That voice!--effortless, dominating! The
mighty threat of the storm, made articulate by the resistance of the
_Elsinore_, shouted in all the stays, bellowed in the shrouds, thrummed
the taut ropes against the steel masts, and from the myriad tiny ropes
far aloft evoked a devil's chorus of shrill pipings and screechings. And
yet, through this bedlam of noise, came Captain West's voice, as of a
spirit visitant, distinct, unrelated, mellow as all music and mighty as
an archangel's call to judgment. And it carried understanding and
command to the man at the wheel, and to Mr. Pike, waist-deep in the wash
of sea below us. And the man at the wheel obeyed, and Mr. Pike obeyed,
barking and snarling orders to the poor wallowing devils who wallowed on
and obeyed him in turn. And as the voice was the face. This face I had
never seen before. It was the face of the spirit visitant, chaste with
wisdom, lighted by a splendour of power and calm. Perhaps it was the
calm that smote me most of all. It was as the calm of one who had
crossed chaos to bless poor sea-worn men with the word that all was well.
It was not the face of the fighter. To my thrilled imagination it was
the face of one who dwelt beyond all strivings of the elements and broody
dissensions of the blood.

The Samurai had arrived, in thunders and lightnings, riding the wings of
the storm, directing the gigantic, labouring _Elsinore_ in all her
intricate massiveness, commanding the wisps of humans to his will, which
was the will of wisdom.

And then, that wonderful Gabriel voice of his, silent (while his
creatures laboured his will), unconcerned, detached and casual, more
slenderly tall and aristocratic than ever in his streaming oilskins,
Captain West touched my shoulder and pointed astern over our weather
quarter. I looked, and all that I could see was a vague smoke of sea and
air and a cloud-bank of sk