"We start directly," said the navigating lieutenant in a weary voice. "When the Herr Kapitän returns." Both stared silently down at the roof of the conning-tower just below them, and at the two long guns which emerged from the turret in front of it. The open manhole in the conning-tower vitalised the familiar objects with a touch of grim expectation. "Ach!" said the engineer at last gloomily. "It is perhaps better--I cannot sleep here--I cannot read." "Sleep!" echoed the lieutenant. "I have not slept for a week. I see always those cursed destroyers slipping through the mist--I see them when I close my eyes--I see them when I am on duty--I know no longer whether I see them or not--and worse than the destroyers----" he broke off suddenly. "Ach, ja," said the engineer, "you have had a bad time--but you can at least see the danger coming--sometimes, down there, I begin to imagine things--I have not let myself imagine, Herr Leutnant--I have read the sublime words of Zarathustra--I could always read them--but now I can, no longer. How long have we been here, Bielefeld?" he finished abruptly. "Four days." "Ach so! I thought it was a week--what days!" "Jawohl!" The two men fell silent again, staring at the sea. Once the lieutenant made a quick movement of alarm, whipped out his binoculars, and gazed into the grey distance. He put them back after some minutes without a word. On the whole ship was no other sound than the strident rasp of the escaping steam and the drone of the gale through the wind-tautened stays. The engineer spoke again. "What does Borkum say?" "Enemy disappeared into the offing--could not keep their stations in this weather." "It is our chance, then." "Yes--perhaps." "You fear----?" "Everything--in this rat-trap. The picket-boats are all in. If only we could start!" "Jawohl--anything is better than this--besides, the movement of the engines is soothing--this stillness day after day is unnerving. If only we had some good Welsh coal! This soft stuff! One burns and burns and gets no heat!" "And advertise ourselves to every cursed scout in the North Sea!" A sailor, heavy in oilskins, drew up and saluted. "The Herr Kapitän is coming, Herr Leutnant." The engineer disappeared. His friend went to the starboard rail of the bridge and looked over. A motor-boat was approaching in a smother of flying spray. A boatswain's whistle shrilled loudly. A minute later the captain came up the ladder onto the bridge, shaking the water from his oilskins like a wet dog and dabbing at his square reddish beard with a handkerchief. The lieutenant saluted, searching his commander's face for a hint of the orders he bore. The captain's eyes were hard, the eyes of a man who had been contemplating desperate possibilities. His bluish lips cut in a thin straight line across his beard. He spoke curtly. "Get the starboard anchor up. Tell the Herr Stabs-Ingenieur I wish to speak to him."