After some little time spent in uneasy reflections, a sort of stupor, occasioned by excessive fatigue both of mind and body, stole over the senses of Fitz-Ullin. His slumbers were at first much broken; but, at length, after telling himself for the hundredth time that nothing could be done till daylight, they assumed somewhat more the character of repose. He had not enjoyed such quite an hour when a low murmuring sound arose, at first apparently at an immense distance, as though the lulled winds were awaking and whispering together at the furthest extremity of space: a gloomy imagination could fancy them secretly conspiring, at this dead hour of the night, the destruction of those who thus unconsciously slept. The sound grew louder. It approached—it became a howl—it drew nearer and nearer still. At length the ominous blast, sweeping through the rigging of the vessel, shrieked wildly, and passed away. Fitz-Ullin sat upright for a moment: but the demon of the storm had sounded his signal cry, and was hushed! A pause of breathless silence followed. Our hero listened for some seconds, and finding all still, concluded that some startling dream must have awakened him, and yielded again to repose. The distant murmur recommenced, increased, and grew by gusts impetuous; the howling blast drew near again, but instead of retiring as before, was pursued by another, and yet another, as it were urging each other forward, till their united and accumulated roar became, in an incredibly short time, tremendous. Fitz-Ullin dreamed of a tempest; but for a few troubled moments, did not again awake; when, suddenly opening his eyes, he leaped up, and, bewildered by the universal uproar which now reigned, without waiting to collect his scattered thoughts, hastened on deck.