The men were right to cheer. God knows they needed what encouragement each other’s voice could give them. What pen shall describe the overwhelming sense of the immensity of the sea, now that its surface could be touched by the hand--its huge presence so close! That sense alone was a weight that oppressed the hearts of the passengers like death. The height of a large ship from the edge of the water implanted a habit of security; but here, they overhung the deep by an arm’s length, and near enough to see their own pale faces mirrored in the green abyss from which they were separated by planks not much stouter than the sole of a boot. There were in Holdsworth’s boat: himself, Mrs. Tennent and her boy, Mr. St. Aubyn, the General, and two seamen--Winyard and Johnson; in all, seven souls. The long-boat, in the distance, looked crowded; but then she was the largest of the boats. Astern of her rowed the boat commanded by the boatswain; astern of Holdsworth’s, the boat commanded by Mr. Thompson, the second mate. There could be no purpose gained by rowing, for, let them ply the oars as hard as they would, they could not urge the heavy boats faster than three miles an hour. Holdsworth steered for the long-boat, and proposed to the captain that they should lay their oars in and wait for a breeze; which was agreed to. The sun shone hot upon the glassy sea, and the boats hoisted their sails as a protection against the rays. And for ever the men bent earnest and anxious glances round the bare and polished horizon for a sail. In Holdsworth’s boat the two seamen sat forward, talking together in low voices; Mr. St. Aubyn reclined with his back against the mast, glancing incessantly about him with quick, scared eyes, but quite silent, as though the novelty and horror of the situation was more than his mind could receive, and he was labouring to master it. The General’s face was placid, and even hopeful. The widow, holding her son at her side, kept her eyes bent downwards, and often her lips moved. In the other boats the men talked, and often called to one another. Their voices sounded forced and unreal as the tones floated across the water, and in a strange manner heightened the unspeakable sense of solitude inspired by the boundless and tenantless deep. For some time the little boy appeared to share in the feelings which held all but the two sailors in Holdsworth’s boat silent; but he presently grew restless, and pulling his mother by the skirt, asked her in a whisper when the ship was coming back to take them on board again. “Another ship will come and take us soon, pray God, Louis,” answered the mother. “But where is our ship, mamma?” Holdsworth overheard the question, and answered in his hearty, cheery manner: “Look well about you, Louis, and, by-and-by, you will see a tiny spot of white rise somewhere on that clear circle,” pointing round the horizon, “and that will be our ship coming to take us home.”