He had tried to dictate his correspondence; had tried, and failed. There were many mistakes. His thoughts would not seem to coalesce. His mind was not upon what he was doing, nor could he place it there. And Schuyler's was a brain that had always been to him an admirably trained servant, coming when he willed it, doing what he willed and in the way he willed.... But today it was a servant sullen, rebellious, recalcitrant. ... The letters remained unwritten. Nothing was sent back with the pilot. And Parks, wondering, puzzled--and, perhaps, a bit perturbed-- watched the pilot swing down the Jacob's ladder, and make across the water toward his craft, with wonderment, puzzlement, perturbation no bit abated. Schuyler paced the deck all that day. Lunch he did not touch. Dinner found him undesirous of food. He was walking--walking--striding up and down, up and down--deep in thought, it seemed--and yet he had not been able to dictate his letters. Parks wondered yet more. At length he went to his employer and asked him if he were not needed. The answer was curt; it was "no." And never before had Parks been answered without a cordial nod, or, perhaps, the good smile of good-fellowship.... He could not understand. And Schuyler? His brain was in a tumult. Like us all, there were many things that he did not know--there were many things that he did not even know there were to know.... Some of these he was beginning to learn. It had shaken him--it was shaking him--to his soul. He did not see The Woman again that day.... Her room was across the corridor from his. He heard her voice, directing the steward to bring to her her dinner.... It was dark that night--dark as night seldom gets in the northern latitudes, in June. The lights of the deck looked like vigorous glowworms. The stars seemed very far away. Far below, as he paced, he could see dimly a great blackness that was the sea, and against it the white of the waves as they broke sullenly against the huge hull.... Later it became yet more black. The stars vanished.... The ship seemed a world of its own, hurling through an eternity of utter, deadly space. A wind sprang up, a wind from the East, wet and vicious, a wind that spat upon one, that chilled one, that slapped one with clammy fingers.