Ere long a silver gray light began to dispel the gloom. The two silent watchers first saw it overhead, and the vast dome of day swiftly widened over the vexed sea. The aftermath of the storm spread a low, dense cloak of vapor all round. The wind had fallen so greatly that they could hear the song of the rigging. Soon they could distinguish the outlines of the heavy rollers near at hand, and Courtenay believed that the ship, in her passage, encountered in the water several narrow bands of a bright red color. If this were so, he knew that the phenomenon was caused by the prawn-like Crustacea which sailors call “Whale-food,” a sure sign of deep water close to land, and, further, an indication that the current was still flowing strongly, while the force of the sea must have been broken many miles to westward. Suddenly he turned to Walker. “Do you think you could shin up to the masthead?” he asked. “I used to be able to climb a bit, sir.” “Well, try the foremast. Up there I am fairly certain you can see over this bank of mist. Don’t get into trouble. Come back if you feel you can’t manage it. If you succeed, take the best observations possible and report.” Courtenay was becoming anxious now. If he dared let go the wheel he would have climbed the mast himself. Walker set about his mission in a business-like manner. He threw off his thick coat and boots, and went forward. Half-way up the mast there was a rope ladder for the use of the sailors when adjusting pulleys. The rest of the journey was not difficult for an athletic man, and Walker was quickly an indistinct figure in the fog. He gained the truck all right, and instantly yelled something. Courtenay fancied he said: “My God! We-ah on the wocks!” Whatever it was, Walker did not wait, but slid downward with such speed that it was fortunate the rigging barred his progress. And then, even while Courtenay was shouting for some explanation, a great black wall rose out of the deep on the port bow. It was a pinnacle rock, high as the ship’s masts, but only a few feet wide at sea level, and the _Kansas_ sped past this ugly monitor as though it were a buoy in a well-marked channel. Courtenay heard the sea breaking against it. The ship could not have been more than sixty feet distant, a little more than her own beam, and he fully expected that she would grind against some outlier in the next instant. But the _Kansas_ had a charmed life. She ran on unscathed, and seemed to be traveling in smoother water after this escape. Walker’s dark skin was the color of parchment when he reached the chart-house. “Captain,” he said, weakly, “I’ll do owt wi’ engines, but I’m no good at this game. That thing fairly banged me. Did ye see it?” “Did _you_ see land?” demanded Courtenay, imperatively. His spirits rose with each of these thrills. He felt that it was ordained that his ship should live.