And still we were sinking, unceasingly sinking, till the last faint hope had died in the heart of the most sanguine, and in despair and with half-mumbled phrases we admitted that there could be no rescue for us. When we were twenty-five hundred feet below the surface, the fury of expectation had given place to a blank and settled despondency; when the distance was twenty-eight hundred feet, each was striving in his own way to prepare himself for the fate which all felt to be but a question of hours. In our panic-stricken horror, we had all long ago forgotten the positions assigned us by the Captain; and the Captain himself did not appear to notice where we were. Young Rawson, the newest of the recruits, had gone down on his knees, and with tears in his eyes was murmuring half audible prayers; Matthew Stangale, one of the oldest and most hardened of the seamen, was pacing restlessly back and forth, back and forth, in the narrow compartment, clenching his fists furiously and muttering to himself; Daniel Howlett, veteran of many campaigns, contented himself with a suppressed growling and profanity, and his curses were echoed by his companions; Frank Ripley, a college gridiron hero, enlisted for the war, buried himself in a corner of the room, his face covered by his hands, the very picture of dejection, though every once in a while, wistfully and half-furtively, he would let his gaze travel to a little photograph he guarded close to his bosom. And as for Captain Gavison, on whom we had fastened our last fading hope of escape--he merely stood near the porthole with arms clenched behind his back and thin lips tightly compressed, peering out into the black waters as though he read there some secret hidden from the obtuse gaze of his followers. * * * * * We were below the three thousand foot level when fresh cause for anxiety appeared. “The holy saints have mercy on us!” suddenly exclaimed James Stranahan, one of the common seamen, as he crossed himself piously. And pointing in awe-stricken amazement through one of the glass spy-holes which led from the deck, down through the bottom of the ship, he called attention to a dim shimmering luminescence far below. Excitedly we crowded about him, almost tumbling over one another in our eagerness and terror, but for a moment we could see nothing. Then, slowly, as we stood straining our eyes to fathom the blackness, we became aware of a vague filmy, widespread sheet of light twinkling faintly beneath us, and remote as the stars of an inverted Milky Way. A sheet of light beneath us, at the bottom of the sea! In incredulous astonishment, we turned to one another, scarcely able to believe our senses, our horror written plainly in our gaping eyes! And in silence, and with fear-blanched faces, half of the company made the sign of the cross. “Sure it’s a ghost, a deep-sea ghost!” ventured the superstitious Stranahan.