Remembering how dogmatically she had expressed herself on a previous occasion on the subject of supernatural visitations, I deemed it desirable not to enter into any discussion, and I also made up my mind that it would be a fatal mistake to let her know that captain’s story, so I merely said, in answer to her statement, ‘I hope not,’ and passed to my cabin. Now I want to repeat here, and for very obvious reasons, what were the views I held at this stage. I considered that the captain was suffering from a distressing nervous illness, the result of long pondering over an incident which could not fail to make a tremendous impression on him. But not for a moment did I entertain any belief in the supernatural. Necessarily I was exceedingly anxious, for there was no doctor on board, I had no medical knowledge myself, and we could not hope to reach our destination for another three weeks. There was every prospect then of the prognostications about a fine and rapid passage being falsified. The barometer had been steadily falling for some time, and all the indications were for bad weather. I knew that in that latitude, at that time of year, heavy storms were not uncommon, and it seemed likely that we should experience them. The anxious state of my mind kept me awake for some time, revolving all sorts of schemes, but nothing that seemed to me satisfactory. Eight bells midnight sounded, and I heard the mate come out of his room and go on deck to take the watch. I slipped out of bed, put on my dressing-gown and slippers, and stole over to the captain’s cabin. To my intense relief I found he was sleeping soundly. As the motion of the vessel made it evident there was a heavy sea on, I went up the companion-way to see what the weather was like. It was a wild, weird night. A south-west gale was blowing and a tremendous sea running. There was no moon, but the stars shone with a superb lustre wherever the ragged, storm-driven scud allowed them to be seen. I passed a few words with the mate, and asked him what he thought of the weather. ‘It’s a bad wind for us,’ he answered, ‘and the heavy squalls that come up every now and then prevent our setting much sail. But if I were skipper, I would crack on and let things rip. I’d drive the ship even at the risk of losing canvas.’ ‘Why don’t you do so, as it is?’ I asked. ‘You’ve got charge of the deck for the next four hours, and have practically a free hand.’ ‘No I haven’t,’ he answered. ‘I’ve got to obey orders, though I think sometimes, between you and me, sir, that the old man’s got a bee in his bonnet, as they say in Scotland.’ ‘What makes you think that?’ I queried, my interest in the skipper making me anxious to hear what the mate had to say. I had not before had any conversation with him about the captain’s condition. Indeed, he was not a very talkative or communicative person. He was what is termed a cautious Scotsman. ‘Well, I think it’s because he’s given to seeing the devil, or something as bad.’