“Not yet,” replied Dick Sand.

Negoro rose as soon as the black’s hand no longer weighed upon him.  But, in passing Hercules: 

“Accursed negro,” murmured he, “I’ll pay you back!”

Meanwhile, the wind had just changed; at least, it seemed to have veered round forty-five degrees.  And, notwithstanding, a singular thing, which struck the novice, nothing in the condition of the sea indicated that change.  The ship headed the same way all the time, but the wind and the waves, instead of taking her directly aft, now struck her by the larboard quarter—­a very dangerous situation, which exposes a ship to receive bad surges.  So Dick Sand was obliged to veer round four points to continue to scud before the tempest.

But, on the other hand, his attention was awakened more than ever.  He asked himself if there was not some connection between Negoro’s fall and the breaking of the first compass.  What did the head cook intend to do there?  Had he some interest in putting the second compass out of service also?  What could that interest be?  There was no explanation of that.  Must not Negoro desire, as they all desired, to land on the American coast as soon as possible?

When Dick Sand spoke of this incident to Mrs. Weldon, the latter, though she shared his distrust in a certain measure, could find no plausible motive for what would be criminal premeditation on the part of the head cook.

However, as a matter of prudence, Negoro was well watched.  Thereafter he attended to the novice’s orders and he did not risk coming aft in the ship, where his duties never called him.  Besides, Dingo having been installed there permanently, the cook took earn to keep away.

During all that week the tempest did not abate.  The barometer fell again.  From the 14th to the 26th of March it was impossible to profit by a single calm to set a few sails.  The “Pilgrim” scudded to the northeast with a speed which could not be less than two hundred miles in twenty-four hours, and still the land did not appear!—­that land, America, which is thrown like an immense barrier between the Atlantic and the Pacific, over an extent of more than a hundred and twenty degrees!

Dick Sand asked himself if he was not a fool, if he was still in his right mind, if, for so many days, unknown to him, he was not sailing in a false direction.  No, he could not find fault with himself on that point.  The sun, even though he could not perceive it in the fogs, always rose before him to set behind him.  But, then, that land, had it disappeared?  That America, on which his vessel would go to pieces, perhaps, where was it, if it was not there?  Be it the Southern Continent or the Northern Continent—­for anything way possible in that chaos—­the “Pilgrim” could not miss either one or the other.  What had happened since the beginning of this frightful tempest?  What was still going on, as that coast, whether it should prove salvation or destruction, did not appear?  Must Dick Sand suppose, then, that he was deceived by his compass, whose indications he could no longer control, because the second compass was lacking to make that control?  Truly, he had that fear which the absence of all land might justify.