“I thought the days of miracles had passed,” said the captain, “and that we were now left to our own exertions, and had no other warnings but those the appearance of the heavens gave us.”

“And they warn us now,” observed Hillebrant.  “See how that bank of clouds has risen within these five minutes—­the moon has escaped from it, but it will soon catch her again—­and see, there is a flash of lightning in the north-west.”

“Well, my sons, I can brave the elements as well as any man, and do my best.  I have cared little for gales or stress of weather; but I like not such a warning as we have had to-night.  My heart’s as heavy as lead, and that’s the truth.  Philip, send down for the bottle of schnapps, if it is only to clear my brain a little.”

Philip was glad of an opportunity to quit the poop; he wished to have a few minutes to recover himself and collect his own thoughts.  The appearance of the Phantom Ship had been to him a dreadful shock—­not that he had not fully believed in its existence; but still, to have beheld, to have been so near that vessel—­that vessel in which his father was fulfilling his awful doom—­that vessel on board of which he felt sure that his own destiny was to be worked out—­had given a whirl to his brain.  When he had heard the sound of the boatswain’s whistle on board of her, eagerly had he stretched his hearing to catch the order given—­and given, he was convinced, in his father’s voice.  Nor had his eyes been less called to aid in his attempt to discover the features and dress of those moving on her decks.  As soon, then, as he had sent the boy up to Mynheer Kloots, Philip hastened to his cabin and buried his face in the coverlet of his bed, and then he prayed—­prayed until he had recovered his usual energy and courage, and had brought his mind to that state of composure which could enable him to look forward calmly to danger and difficulty, and feel prepared to meet it with the heroism of a martyr.

Philip remained below not more than half an hour.  On his return to the deck, what a change had taken place!  He had left the vessel floating motionless on the still waters, with her lofty sails hanging down listlessly from the yards.  The moon then soared aloft in her beauty, reflecting the masts and sails of the ship in extended lines upon the smooth sea.  Now all was dark:  the water rippled short and broke in foam; the smaller and lofty sails had been taken in, and the vessel was cleaving through the water; and the wind, in fitful gusts and angry moanings, proclaimed too surely that it had been awakened up to wrath, and was gathering its strength for destruction.  The men were still busy reducing the sails, but they worked gloomily and discontentedly.  What Schriften, the pilot, had said to them, Philip knew not, but that they avoided him and appeared to look upon him with feelings of ill-will, was evident.  And each minute the gale increased.

“The wind is not steady,” observed Hillebrant; “there is no saying from which quarter the storm may blow:  it has already veered round five points.  Philip, I don’t much like the appearance of things, and I may say with the captain that my heart is heavy.”