Well, our shaft was broken. That was flat. We went down into the engine-room and saw the jagged fracture that was the symbol of our broken hopes. And in the course of the next five minutes' conversation with the chief we found that, as we had not provided against such a contingency, there was to be no mending of it. We said nothing about the mishap coinciding with the appearance of the Other Ship. But I know we did not consider the break with any degree of surprise after a few moments. We came up from the engine-room and sat down to the cabin table. "Now what?" said Hardenberg, by way of beginning. Nobody answered at first. It was by now three in the morning. I recall it all perfectly. The ports opposite where I sat were open and I could see. The moon was all but full set. The dawn was coming up with a copper murkiness over the edge of the world. All the stars were yet out. The sea, for all the red moon and copper dawn, was gray, and there, less than half a mile away, still lay our consort. I could see her through the portholes with each slow careening of the _Glarus_. "I vote for the island," cried Ally Bazan, "shaft or no shaft. We rigs a bit o' syle, y'know----" and thereat the discussion began. For upward of two hours it raged, with loud words and shaken forefingers, and great noisy bangings of the table, and how it would have ended I do not know, but at last--it was then maybe five in the morning--the lookout passed word down to the cabin: "Will you come on deck, gentlemen?" It was the mate who spoke, and the man was shaken--I could see that--to the very vitals of him. We started and stared at one another, and I watched little Ally Bazan go slowly white to the lips. And even then no word of the ship, except as it might be this from Hardenberg: "What is it? Good God Almighty, I'm no coward, but this thing is getting one too many for me." Then without further speech he went on deck. The air was cool. The sun was not yet up. It was that strange, queer mid-period between dark and dawn, when the night is over and the day not yet come, just the gray that is neither light nor dark, the dim dead blink as of the refracted light from extinct worlds. We stood at the rail. We did not speak; we stood watching. It was so still that the drip of steam from some loosened pipe far below was plainly audible, and it sounded in that lifeless, silent grayness like--God knows what--a death tick. "You see," said the mate, speaking just above a whisper, "there's no mistake about it. She is moving--this way." "Oh, a current, of course," Strokher tried to say cheerfully, "sets her toward us." Would the morning never come? Ally Bazan--his parents were Catholic--began to mutter to himself. Then Hardenberg spoke aloud. "I particularly don't want--that--out--there--to cross our bows. I don't want it to come to that. We must get some sails on her." "And I put it to you as man to man," said Strokher, "where might be your wind."