Maso laid his hand upon the shoulder of the student, which he pressed with the force of a vice.

“Thou art right,” he said, moodily; “make the most of thy friendships, and, if there are any that love thee, tighten the knot by all the means thou hast.  None know the curse of being deserted in this selfish and cruel battle of interest better than I!  Be not ashamed of thy star, but gaze at it till thy eye-strings crack.  See the bright eyes of her that loves thee in its twinkling, her constancy in its lustre, and her melancholy in its sadness; lose not the happy moments, for there will soon be a dark curtain to shut out its view.”

The Westphalian was struck with the singular energy as well as with the poetry of the mariner, and he distrusted the obvious allusion to the clouds, which were, in fact, fast covering the vault above their heads.

“Dost thou like the night?” he demanded, turning from his star in doubt.

“It might be fairer.  This is a wild region, and your cold Swiss lakes sometimes become too hot for the stoutest seaman’s heart.  Gaze at thy star young man, while thou mayest, and bethink thee of the maiden thou lovest and of all her kindness; we are on a crazy water, and pleasant thoughts should not be lightly thrown away.”

Maso walked away, leaving the student alarmed, uneasy at he knew not what, and yet bent with childish eagerness on regarding the little luminary that occasionally was still seen wading among volumes of vapor.  At this instant, a shout of unmeaning, clamorous merriment arose on the forecastle.

Il Maledetto did not remain any longer on the pile, but abandoning it to the new occupant, he descended among the silent, thoughtful party who were in possession of the cleared space near the stern.  It was now so dark that some little attention was necessary to distinguish faces, even at trifling distances.  But, by means of moving among these privileged persons with great coolness and seeming indifference, he soon succeeded in placing himself near the Genoese and the Augustine.

“Signore,” he said, in Italian, raising his cap to the former with the same marked respect as before, though it was evidently no easy matter to impress him with the deference that the obscure usually feel for the great—­“this is likely to prove an unfortunate end to a voyage that began with so fair appearances.  I could wish that your eccellenza, with all this noble and fair company, was safely landed in the town of Vevey.”

“Dost thou mean that we have cause to fear more than delay?”

“Signore, the mariner’s life is one of unequal chances:  now he floats in a lazy calm, and presently he is tossed between heaven and earth, in a way to make the stoutest heart sick.  My knowledge of these waters is not great, but there are signs making themselves seen in the sky, here above the peak that lies in the direction of Mont Blanc, that would trouble me, were this our own clue but treacherous Mediterranean.”