He awoke with a start. Midnight was just past, and upon everything lay a great silence, faintly broken by the soft lap of the sea against the timbers of the brig as she sped on towards the land and--safety? No other sound was audible in the profound peace of the night, and yet George was certain that something had startled his sleep and awakened him. He sat up cautiously and listened, holding his breath. Nothing! Then with frightful suddenness the solemn stillness was stirred by a sound--a sound discordant, shrill, horrible; a sound which pierced the heart of the watcher in the night, chilling his blood, so that, for all his strength and hardihood, he shook and shivered as he heard the hideous tones, inhuman yet resonant of human sadness and hate and fury; appalling in their horror. And as George sat quaking in his hammock, the weird noises, only half articulate, crashed again through the stillness, stunning his affrighted ears. What was that strange, revolting, heart-sickening noise? What was it? Like the howling of a pack of wild dogs, where no dogs could be. Like the shrieking and sobbing of men in dire agony--yet what human throat ever emitted such sounds? Like the hoots and jeers of gibbering maniacs. Like none of these alone. Like all of them together. What human ear was ever forced to listen to such inhuman sounds? And at such an hour, too! What were they? By an immense effort George got to the floor. Bigham was muttering fearfully in his hammock, two of the men were sobbing with fright, and one prayed brokenly, his scattered wits recalling fragments of the simple petitions of his childhood. Over all there hung the shadow of the same awful terror. Once more that horrible wailing swept down from above. 'Bigham, I can't stand this,' said George in a harsh whisper. 'I am going on deck to find out what it means.' The mate only groaned. Then manhood reasserting its grip, 'Don't go, Mr. Haughton,' he implored. 'The devil, I think, is let loose up there. Come back, sir, for God's sake!' But George was already half-way up the ladder. Unless he took this thing on the rush, he felt that he would have no nerve to face it at all. He reached the companion, held back an instant while he fetched a deep breath, and then sprang into the open. Not a soul was to be seen. A lantern or two shed a faint glimmering light, the helm was lashed, the deck empty of life. With a gasp of horror George turned and raced back to the shelter of the fo'c'sle. CHAPTER VIII THE STORM BURSTS The gloom which hung over the fo'c'sle when day at length dawned was in no wise lightened by the futility of all efforts to discover the cause of the weird sounds of the night. George was, perhaps, the only one who had not actually attributed the discordant din to a supernatural source; but since more than one uncommonly odd happening had chanced of late, even he would have found it a relief to be assured upon one point, no matter what.