I led her to the starboard quarter, where I had stood with Crimp, and repeated the story. The darkness gave my recital of the incident the complexion it wanted; a tremor passed through her hand into my arm. It was enough to make a very nightmare of the gloom, warm as it was with the dew-laden southerly breathing, and delicate too with the small fine light trembled into it by the stars, to think of a hail sounding out of it from a phantasm as shapeless as any dye of gloom upon the canvas of the night. Ten minutes passed; I then discerned the figures of Wilfrid and Finn coming aft. My cousin’s deep breathing was audible when he was still at a distance. ‘Well, what news?’ I called cheerily. Wilfrid drew close and exclaimed, ‘It is true. I have heard it.’ ‘Ha!’ said I, turning upon Finn. ‘By all that is blue, then, Mr. Monson, sir,’ exclaimed the worthy fellow, ‘there _is_ somewhat a-talking below.’ ‘What does it say?’ asked Miss Jennings, showing herself all on a sudden thoroughly frightened. ‘What I heard,’ said Wilfrid in his most raven note, ‘was this, “_The yacht is cursed. Sail her home! Sail her home!_”’ ‘’Twas as plain, Mr. Monson, as his honour’s own voice,’ said Finn, in a profoundly despondent way. ‘D’ye think, Finn,’ said I, ‘that it is a trick played off upon the crew by some skylarking son of a gun forward?’ His head wagged against the stars. ‘I wish I could believe it, sir. The woice was under foot. There’s nobody belonging to the ship there. There’s no man a-missing. ’Sides, ’tain’t a human woice. Never could ha’ believed it.’ He pulled out his pocket-handkerchief and polished his brow. ‘Well,’ I exclaimed, ‘so long as the thing, whatever it be, keeps forward--the deuce of it is, I’ve heard such sounds myself twice. It can’t be fancy, then. Yet, confound it all, Wilf, there can be nothing supernatural about it either. What is it? Shall I explore the yacht forward? Give me a lantern, and I’ll overhaul her to my own satisfaction anyway.’ ‘You may set us on fire,’ said Wilfrid; ‘let the matter rest for to-night. To-morrow, Finn, you can rummage the yacht.’ He started violently: ‘_What_ can it be, though? Are we veritably haunted by the ghost of the Portuguese?’ He tried to laugh, but the dryness of the utterance seemed to half choke him. ‘Well, let us wait for daylight, as you say,’ cried I. ‘I am going below for some seltzer and brandy,’ said Wilfrid. ‘Finn, you may tell the steward to give the men a glass of grog apiece. What can it be?’ he muttered, and his long figure then flitted to the companion, through which he vanished.