As there was no sign of a breeze, Anthony ordered out a boat; three men were put into it, and he took an oar himself; a line was made fast to the schooner, and they lay to the work of pulling her head around. But the mass of weed was too stiff; the stout, ashen oars bent in the thole-pins; but the vessel did not swerve; the boat could make no way; the drift went on, and they went with it. And while the boat was being hoisted in Tom Horn spoke to mademoiselle. "The circle has tightened; no power can slacken it--no wind--no wash of the sea. It is the grip of the great law, the world's roll, and the force of the planet that guides the tides. It gives nothing up." "You were once lost in this place," said the girl, her face still pale, but with steady voice. "And you made away from it." "I was here until my heart died in me," said Tom Horn. "I was here so long that it seemed the very heavens were splashed with slime; and my hope rotted as everything must rot that stays here. Each morning," he said, in his odd way, "the sun lifted out of the east like a threat and hung burning over a ghastly sea. All day I saw dead things or dead men; I saw shapes rear themselves out of the scum that withered my sight. By night winged horrors drifted across the moon; in the dark there were millions of pale candles, lighted round the coffin of a world that had passed." The schooner's company was gathered in the waist as Anthony went below; he noted them whispering and nodding, sullen looks upon their faces; and his own was grim as he sat down to his breakfast. Mademoiselle was already at the table. And they ate for some time in silence. The hideous, turgid sea lay flat through the schooner's stern window, and the girl's eyes were fixed upon it. Anthony studied her; the sparkle which had filled her eyes from the time they had put to sea was gone; her face was intent; fear worked beneath her look. "Tom Horn does not seem to have a mind for his breakfast," said Anthony. "No," she replied. She kept her eyes fixed upon the motionless sea; there was another silence. "And," said the young man, "you do not appear to be greatly inclined to it yourself." "No," she said again. "For some days," said Anthony, "I have noted you engaged in talk with Tom. And a little space ago I saw you again, after we'd sighted the wrecks ahead. And I would suggest," continued the young man, "that you not give too much attention to his sayings at this time." "It is your own word," said the girl, "that of all those with whom you have spoken this man has been nearest the truth." Anthony poured some wine into a high glass; its amber body picked up a ray of light, bathed joyously in it, and then shot it out, stained and gleaming. And while the young man studied its cheerful message he replied to the girl: