“Hallo, it’s found its tongue....  Ahoy there!  What are you?”

Loudly and in a clear voice Abel Keeling called:  “Are you a ship?”

With a nervous giggle the answer came: 

“We are a ship, aren’t we, Ward?  I hardly feel sure....  Yes, of course, we’re a ship.  No question about us.  The question is what the dickens you are.”

Not all the words these voices used were intelligible to Abel Keeling, and he knew not what it was in the tone of these last words that reminded him of the honour due to the Mary of the Tower.  Blister-white and at the end of her life as she was, Abel Keeling was still jealous of her dignity; the voice had a youngish ring; and it was not fitting that young chins should be wagged about his galleon.  He spoke curtly.

“You that spoke—­are you the master of that ship?”

“Officer of the watch,” the words floated back; “the captain’s below.”

“Then send for him.  It is with masters that masters hold speech,” Abel Keeling replied.

He could see the two shapes, flat and without relief, standing on a high narrow structure with rails.  One of them gave a low whistle, and seemed to be fanning his face; but the other rumbled something into a sort of funnel.  Presently the two shapes became three.  There was a murmuring, as of a consultation, and then suddenly a new voice spoke.  At its thrill and tone a sudden tremor ran through Abel Keeling’s frame.  He wondered what response it was that that voice found in the forgotten recesses of his memory....

“Ahoy!” seemed to call this new yet faintly remembered voice. “What’s all this about?  Listen.  We’re His Majesty’s destroyer Seapink, out of Devonport last October, and nothing particular the matter with us.  Now who are you?”

“The Mary of the Tower, out of the Port of Rye on the day of Saint Anne, and only two men—­”

A gasp interrupted him.

“Out of WHERE?” that voice that so strangely moved Abel Keeling said unsteadily, while Bligh broke into groans of renewed rapture.

“Out of the Port of Rye, in the County of Sussex ... nay, give ear, else I cannot make you hear me while this man’s spirit and flesh wrestle so together!...  Ahoy!  Are you gone?” For the voices had become a low murmur, and the ship-shape had faded before Abel Keeling’s eyes.  Again and again he called.  He wished to be informed of the disposition and economy of the wind-chamber....

“The wind-chamber!” he called, in an agony lest the knowledge almost within his grasp should be lost.  “I would know about the wind-chamber....”

Like an echo, there came back the words, uncomprehendingly uttered, “The wind-chamber?...”

“... that driveth the vessel—­perchance ’tis not wind—­a steel bow that is bent also conserveth force—­the force you store, to move at will through calm and storm....”