Dark storm-clouds spread from pole to pole, The lightnings flash, the thunders roll, And lo, the sea, in mountains high, With giant billows storms the sky, While all the vast disturbèd main Is veiled in whirling mist and rain. Betwixt the flying scud and spume, A ship drifts onward to her doom; She flies before the raging gale, With broken mast and tattered sail; While up through pitchy darkness rolls Despairing cries of drowning souls. Having passed the Island of Cythera during the night, by next morning the yacht was ploughing the placid waters of the Cretan Sea. Placid waters these generally are, especially during the months of the halcyon, but now a stiff breeze was blowing steadily from the north, which by noon increased to a fierce gale. As far as the eye could see, there appeared nothing but a vast expanse of tumbling waves, their whiteness above accentuated by the green blackness below, as they flung their shattered spray as in derision against the grim sky. Threatening masses of gloomy clouds lay along the northern horizon, fronted by the bleak island of Santorin, which scowled in savage grandeur in the cloudy distance. Gray sky, gray sea, driving rain, and sudden gusts of wind, making the streaming sails crack like pistol-shots with the violent lurching of the vessel;—it was like a North Sea picture; nor would any one surveying the dreary scene have believed the boat was sailing over the enchanting waters of the Mediterranean. The three gentlemen, after an uncomfortable breakfast, owing to the rolling of the yacht, which upset everything on the table in spite of the fiddles, were now on deck, holding on to whatever they could support themselves by, for The Eunice tossing about like a cork in the yeasty surge, made it no small difficulty for those on board to retain their equilibrium. Wrapped up in oilskins, they were sufficiently dry and warm, for, in spite of the mist and drenching rain, the weather was not in the least chilly—a thing to be thankful for in such a predicament. The yacht schooner, rigged fore and aft, was a capital sea boat; so, apprehending no danger, they joked and laughed during the lulls of the gale at their hardships, and gazed with interest on the wild spectacle afforded by the seething waters. Maurice and the poet were comforting themselves with tobacco, while Caliphronas, excited by the wildness of the scene, was clinging to the weather rigging, and facing the keen whips of wind, rain, and spray like some antique sea-god. Occasionally he would shout out a few sentences to his companions, but, owing to the tumult around, they could only catch his meaning every now and then. “Often like this—Ægean!—sudden gales—have no fear.”