Turning around to the group of sailors, I called out:
“A thousand ducats to the man who first sights land!”
A hearty cheer rent the air, and calling to Bulger to follow me, I went below to think.
That night I not only took the precaution to hang a lanthorn so that I could lie in my hammock and see a ship’s compass at any time I might awake, but, fearful lest some treachery might be attempted, I ordered my faithful Bulger to sleep with his back against the door so that the least vibration would arouse him.
Night after night these precautions were followed out most strictly. During the day, too, my pistols were always in my belt.
Bulger felt the danger I was in, and he, by his vigilance gave me the advantage of eyes in the back of my head.
A low growl warned me of the approach of the master or one of the crew.
Thus protected and guarded, I felt that nothing save a general mutiny need be feared. And this I knew to be almost impossible, for a number of the crew were too devoted to me to listen to any traitorous proposals. They would have slain the master in cold blood had he dared to breathe the word mutiny!
Things went very well for about ten days when I saw that a terrible struggle was going on in the captain’s mind.
I began to fear that he might lose his reason and throw himself into the sea.
His face took on a yellow-greenish hue.
He was literally dying of fright.
One morning he threw himself upon his knees in front of me, and with tear-stained cheeks implored me to put back to the African coast again.
I did all I could to quiet him, but in vain.
His reason was slowly but surely giving way.
Calling the mate to me, I put him in command of the vessel, and directed him to confine the captain in his cabin and place a guard over him.
It cut me to the heart to be obliged to do this, for the poor fellow begged like a dog to be left in command of his ship.
But I was deaf to his entreaties.
I felt that now all trouble was at an end.
The wind was blowing fifteen knots an hour.
Every stitch of sail had been crowded on.
We fairly leapt out of the water like a thing of life, half flying half swimming.
Ever and anon I glanced at the compass.
She was headed dead south.
My cheeks tingled and I could feel the flow of warm blood through every vein in my body.
The moon went up like a shield of burnished gold. The sea glittered like liquid fire. Anon, a porpoise leaped into the air and sent a thousand ripples circling away as he plunged into the water again
Our good ship cleft the glassy bosom of the sea like some huge black monster of the deep, and left a trail of fire in her wake as far as the eye could reach.
Towards midnight I went to rest.
But neither rest nor sleep was possible.
Half undressing, I threw myself into my hammock, and Bulger took his accustomed place at the door.
The lanthorn was not strong enough to overcome the light of the full moon. It streamed through the bull’s eyes in weird, fantastic rays, and crowded my cabin with strange and mysterious forms.
They were seven!
Their faces and figures were godlike, so white, so beautiful were they.
There was an indescribable sadness in their full dark eyes.
They spake not a word.
Suddenly the paneling of the cabin ceiling parted, and disclosed a staircase wrapped in dim, uncertain light.
Adown these steps came a most gracious being, so white and fair and lovely that I gazed with bated breath.
Down, down it came, nearer and nearer.
She needed but wings to be an angel!
But, oh! her fair face was so filled with sorrow!
Her lips were parted, her long black hair fell in confused tresses on her shoulders.
She stepped into the cabin. And then, with a quick, dread look, her gaze fell upon the seven bowed figures.
“Paula!” they cried, and drew their white robes over their heads.
“Land ho! Land ho!”
What! Could I believe my ears?
“Land ho! Land ho!”
With a bound I sprang from my hammock and rushed upon deck.
Ay, it was true! There, half a mile ahead of us, was a sight that stunned me like the blow of a bludgeon.
Land it was, but not such a land as in my wildest dreams I had hoped to find.
Ten thousand lights glimmered on that mysterious shore, and illumined the front of a Roman temple whiter than milk. A marble staircase of the same hue led down to the very water’s edge.
A sacrifice was in progress.
From the highest terrace a column of black smoke curled slowly upward.
No sound reached my ear.
I stood almost bereft of my senses.
At last, my power of speech returned. I ordered anchor to be cast, and clinging to the shrouds of my good ship, gazed long and joyfully upon the entrancing scene.
The land rose in natural terraces from the seashore, and no matter in what direction you looked, your eye caught glimpses of a graceful statue or group of statuary gleaming in the white moonlight, amid the dark foliage, like white-robed figures astray in a wood.
“It must be!” I murmured to myself.
“I have found it! This Roman temple, this marble stairway, these groups of statuary, all point to the glorious success of my voyage of discovery. This is the Sculptors’ Isle!”
How long I stood there gazing upon this beautiful shore I know not. Some one pulling gently at my sleeve roused me from my reverie.
It was Bulger.
I stooped and stroked his head for a few moments.
Suddenly I awoke to a sense of great weariness, and casting another glance toward that mysterious shore, I turned and descended to the cabin.
I soon fell into a deep sleep.
The
