LITMIR.BIZ

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captain parted, each reverting to his own meditation, and a little while afterwards the Matutina left the gulf.

      Now came the great rolling of the open sea. The ocean in the spaces between the foam was slimy in appearance. The waves, seen through the twilight in indistinct outline, somewhat resembled plashes of gall. Here and there a wave floating flat showed cracks and stars, like a pane of glass broken by stones; in the centre of these stars, in a revolving orifice, trembled a phosphorescence, like that feline reflection, of vanished light which shines in the eyeballs of owls.

      Proudly, like a bold swimmer, the Matutina crossed the dangerous Shambles shoal. This bank, a hidden obstruction at the entrance of Portland roads, is not a barrier; it is an amphitheatre-a circus of sand under the sea, its benches cut out by the circling of the waves-an arena, round and symmetrical, as high as a Jungfrau, only drowned-a coliseum of the ocean, seen by the diver in the vision-like transparency which engulfs him, – such is the Shambles shoal. There hydras fight, leviathans meet. There, says the legend, at the bottom of the gigantic shaft, are the wrecks of ships, seized and sunk by the huge spider Kraken, also called the fish-mountain. Such things lie in the fearful shadow of the sea.

      These spectral realities, unknown to man, are manifested at the surface by a slight shiver.

      In this nineteenth century, the Shambles bank is in ruins; the breakwater recently constructed has overthrown and mutilated, by the force of its surf, that high submarine architecture, just as the jetty, built at the Croisic in 1760, changed, by a quarter of an hour, the course of the tides. And yet the tide is eternal. But eternity obeys man more than man imagines.

      Chapter iv

      A cloud different from the others

      enters on the scene

      The old man whom the chief of the band had named first the Madman, then the Sage, now never left the forecastle. Since they crossed the Shambles shoal, his attention had been divided between the heavens and the waters. He looked down, he looked upwards, and above all watched the north-east.

      The skipper gave the helm to a sailor, stepped over the after hatchway, crossed the gangway, and went on to the forecastle. He approached the old man, but not in front. He stood a little behind, with elbows resting on his hips, with outstretched hands, the head on one side, with open eyes and arched eyebrows, and a smile in the corners of his mouth-an attitude of curiosity hesitating between mockery and respect.

      The old man, either that it was his habit to talk to himself, or that hearing some one behind incited him to speech, began to soliloquize while he looked into space.

      “The meridian, from which the right ascension is calculated, is marked in this century by four stars-the Polar, Cassiopeia’s Chair, Andromeda’s Head, and the star Algenib, which is in Pegasus. But there is not one visible.”

      These words followed each other mechanically, confused, and scarcely articulated, as if he did not care to pronounce them. They floated out of his mouth and dispersed. Soliloquy is the smoke exhaled by the inmost fires of the soul.

      The skipper broke in, “My lord!”

      The old man, perhaps rather deaf as well as very thoughtful, went on,-

      “Too few stars, and too much wind. The breeze continually changes its direction and blows inshore; thence it rises perpendicularly. This results from the land being warmer than the water. Its atmosphere is lighter. The cold and dense wind of the sea rushes in to replace it. From this cause, in the upper regions the wind blows towards the land from every quarter. It would be advisable to make long tacks between the true and apparent parallel. When the latitude by observation differs from the latitude by dead reckoning by not more than three minutes in thirty miles, or by four minutes in sixty miles, you are in the true course.”

      The skipper bowed, but the old man saw him not. The latter, who wore what resembled an Oxford or Gottingen university gown, did not relax his haughty and rigid attitude. He observed the waters as a critic of waves and of men. He studied the billows, but almost as if he was about to demand his turn to speak amidst their turmoil, and teach them something. There was in him both pedagogue and soothsayer. He seemed an oracle of the deep.

      He continued his soliloquy, which was perhaps intended to be heard.

      “We might strive if we had a wheel instead of a helm. With a speed of twelve miles an hour, a force of twenty pounds exerted on the wheel produces three hundred thousand pounds’ effect on the course. And more too. For in some cases, with a double block and runner, they can get two more revolutions.”

      The skipper bowed a second time, and said, “My lord!”

      The old man’s eye rested on him; he had turned his head without moving his body.

      “Call me Doctor.”

      “Master Doctor, I am the skipper.”

      “Just so,” said the doctor.

      The doctor, as henceforward we shall call him, appeared willing to converse.

      “Skipper, have you an English sextant?”

      “No.”

      “Without an English sextant you cannot take an altitude at all.”

      “The Basques,” replied the captain, “took altitudes before there were any English.”

      “Be careful you are not taken aback.”

      “I keep her away when necessary.”

      “Have you tried how many knots she is running?”

      “Yes.”

      “When?”

      “Just now.”

      “How?”

      “By the log.”

      “Did you take the trouble to look at the triangle?”

      “Yes.”

      “Did the sand run through the glass in exactly thirty seconds?”

      “Yes.”

      “Are you sure that the sand has not worn the hole between the globes?”

      “Yes.”

      “Have you proved the sand-glass by the oscillations of a bullet?”

      “Suspended by a rope yarn drawn out from the top of a coil of soaked hemp? Undoubtedly.”

      “Have you waxed the yarn lest it should stretch?”

      “Yes.”

      “Have you tested the log?”

      “I tested the sand-glass by the bullet, and checked the log by a round shot.”

      “Of what size was the shot?”

      “One foot in diameter.”

      “Heavy enough?”

      “It is an old round shot of our war hooker, La Casse de Par-Grand.”

      “Which was in the Armada?”

      “Yes.”

      “And which carried six hundred soldiers, fifty sailors, and twenty-five guns?”

      “Shipwreck knows it.”

      “How did you compute the resistance of the water to the shot?”

      “By means of a German scale.”

      “Have you taken into account the resistance of the rope supporting the shot to the waves?”

      “Yes.”

      “What was the result?”

      “The resistance of the water was 170 pounds.”

      “That’s to say she is running four French leagues an hour.”

      “And three Dutch leagues.”

      “But that is the difference merely of the vessel’s way and the rate at which the sea is running?”

      “Undoubtedly.”

      “Whither are you

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