She floated at the starting-point of a long journey, very still in an immense stillness, the shadows of her spars flung far to the eastward by the setting sun.  At that moment I was alone on her decks.  There was not a sound in her—­and around us nothing moved, nothing lived, not a canoe on the water, not a bird in the air, not a cloud in the sky.  In this breathless pause at the threshold of a long passage we seemed to be measuring our fitness for a long and arduous enterprise, the appointed task of both our existences to be carried out, far from all human eyes, with only sky and sea for spectators and for judges.

There must have been some glare in the air to interfere with one’s sight, because it was only just before the sun left us that my roaming eyes made out beyond the highest ridge of the principal islet of the group something which did away with the solemnity of perfect solitude.  The tide of darkness flowed on swiftly; and with tropical suddenness a swarm of stars came out above the shadowy earth, while I lingered yet, my hand resting lightly on my ship’s rail as if on the shoulder of a trusted friend.  But, with all that multitude of celestial bodies staring down at one, the comfort of quiet communion with her was gone for good.  And there were also disturbing sounds by this time—­voices, footsteps forward; the steward flitted along the maindeck, a busily ministering spirit; a hand-bell tinkled urgently under the poop-deck. . . .

I found my two officers waiting for me near the supper table, in the lighted cuddy.  We sat down at once, and as I helped the chief mate, I said: 

“Are you aware that there is a ship anchored inside the islands?  I saw her mastheads above the ridge as the sun went down.”

He raised sharply his simple face, overcharged by a terrible growth of whisker, and emitted his usual ejaculations:  “Bless my soul, sir!  You don’t say so!”

My second mate was a round-cheeked, silent young man, grave beyond his years, I thought; but as our eyes happened to meet I detected a slight quiver on his lips.  I looked down at once.  It was not my part to encourage sneering on board my ship.  It must be said, too, that I knew very little of my officers.  In consequence of certain events of no particular significance, except to myself, I had been appointed to the command only a fortnight before.  Neither did I know much of the hands forward.  All these people had been together for eighteen months or so, and my position was that of the only stranger on board.  I mention this because it has some bearing on what is to follow.  But what I felt most was my being a stranger to the ship; and if all the truth must be told, I was somewhat of a stranger to myself.  The youngest man on board (barring the second mate), and untried as yet by a position of the fullest responsibility, I was willing to take the adequacy of the others for granted.  They had simply to be equal to their tasks; but I wondered how far I should turn out faithful to that ideal conception of one’s own personality every man sets up for himself secretly.