He was right. The _Glarus_ floated in absolute calm. On all that slab of ocean nothing moved but the Dead Ship. She came on slowly; her bows, the high, clumsy bows pointed toward us, the water turning from her forefoot. She came on; she was near at hand. We saw her plainly--saw the rotted planks, the crumbling rigging, the rust-corroded metal-work, the broken rail, the gaping deck, and I could imagine that the clean water broke away from her sides in refluent wavelets as though in recoil from a thing unclean. She made no sound. No single thing stirred aboard the hulk of her--but she moved. We were helpless. The _Glarus_ could stir no boat in any direction; we were chained to the spot. Nobody had thought to put out our lights, and they still burned on through the dawn, strangely out of place in their red-and-green garishness, like maskers surprised by daylight. And in the silence of that empty ocean, in that queer half-light between dawn and day, at six o'clock, silent as the settling of the dead to the bottomless bottom of the ocean, gray as fog, lonely, blind, soulless, voiceless, the Dead Ship crossed our bows. I do not know how long after this the Ship disappeared, or what was the time of day when we at last pulled ourselves together. But we came to some sort of decision at last. This was to go on--under sail. We were too close to the island now to turn back for--for a broken shaft. The afternoon was spent fitting on the sails to her, and when after nightfall the wind at length came up fresh and favourable, I believe we all felt heartened and a deal more hardy--until the last canvas went aloft, and Hardenberg took the wheel. We had drifted a good deal since the morning, and the bows of the _Glarus_ were pointed homeward, but as soon as the breeze blew strong enough to get steerageway Hardenberg put the wheel over and, as the booms swung across the deck, headed for the island again. We had not gone on this course half an hour--no, not twenty minutes--before the wind shifted a whole quarter of the compass and took the _Glarus_ square in the teeth, so that there was nothing for it but to tack. And then the strangest thing befell. I will make allowance for the fact that there was no centre-board nor keel to speak of to the _Glarus_. I will admit that the sails upon a nine-hundred-ton freighter are not calculated to speed her, nor steady her. I will even admit the possibility of a current that set from the island toward us. All this may be true, yet the _Glarus_ should have advanced. We should have made a wake. And instead of this, our stolid, steady, trusty old boat was--what shall I say?