The crew were running about frantically. Half of them were on the bridge waving their arms and evidently abusing the skipper. I walked back in disgust and stood by the companion-way that led down into my little saloon and, leaning against the towing post, just aft, I looked across the sea. Morris followed me and for a moment stood silent. He smiled faintly and then murmured: “Merry Christmas, sir.” And we both laughed, only it was not such a hearty laugh as one generally associates with the day. There was nothing to do but wait. There seemed no alternative. What a way to end up! We looked at the rocks and then at the sea, and I wondered what the sensations would be. Christmas! It seemed almost providential that I had made the effort the day before and got off my message for home. It would be my last word! It seemed hard to realize that it actually was Xmas. I looked at my watch. It was almost the exact hour that they would be having their Christmas tree, away back across the ocean. “Morris,” I said, “this looks like the end to me. How does it strike you?” He did not look at me as he replied so low as barely to be audible, “Yes, sir; it looks pretty bad to me, too.” I looked at him curiously and wondered how he really felt behind that black face of his. “Morris,” I said again after a moment, “how do you feel about death, anyway?” He looked at me and then he looked at the sea, and smiled faintly as he answered: “Well, sir, the water looks cold to me.” At that moment there was a break in the clouds. Oh, such a little break! Out of it fell a mere handful of sunlight, as rays fall into a darkened room when the blinds are thrown open. The clear, transcendent shafts fell across the waters like a message from heaven, and suddenly there was a shout on the bridge, echoed by every member of the crew that was on deck. From the whiteness of the hillside, just on our beam, there stood out a golden spot, that seemed no larger than a five dollar gold piece. For a moment it flashed like fire against the white. Then as quickly as it had come it dissolved from view. It was the dome on the Greek church in Batuum. The sun for just that tiny space had turned its brazen cupola to liquid light that marked for us the haven of our seeking. Thirty minutes later we anchored behind the breakwater, and a mountain slid from off our souls. CHAPTER XII _We Find Turmoil in the Caucasus but Celebrate Christmas in Spite of Storm and Stress_