blinded by the darkness.  They make patterns in it, and they flash in it, as if they had gone out of your head to look at you.  On the turn of midnight, John Steadiman, who was alert and fresh (for I had always made him turn in by day), said to me, “Captain Ravender, I entreat of you to go below.  I am sure you can hardly stand, and your voice is getting weak, sir.  Go below, and take a little rest.  I’ll call you if a block chafes.”  I said to John in answer, “Well, well, John!  Let us wait till the turn of one o’clock, before we talk about that.”  I had just had one of the ship’s lanterns held up, that I might see how the night went by my watch, and it was then twenty minutes after twelve.

At five minutes before one, John sang out to the boy to bring the lantern again, and when I told him once more what the time was, entreated and prayed of me to go below.  “Captain Ravender,” says he, “all’s well; we can’t afford to have you laid up for a single hour; and I respectfully and earnestly beg of you to go below.”  The end of it was, that I agreed to do so, on the understanding that if I failed to come up of my own accord within three hours, I was to be punctually called.  Having settled that, I left John in charge.  But I called him to me once afterwards, to ask him a question.  I had been to look at the barometer, and had seen the mercury still perfectly steady, and had come up the companion again to take a last look about me—­if I can use such a word in reference to such darkness—­when I thought that the waves, as the Golden Mary parted them and shook them off, had a hollow sound in them; something that I fancied was a rather unusual reverberation.  I was standing by the quarter-deck rail on the starboard side, when I called John aft to me, and bade him listen.  He did so with the greatest attention.  Turning to me he then said, “Rely upon it, Captain Ravender, you have been without rest too long, and the novelty is only in the state of your sense of hearing.”  I thought so too by that time, and I think so now, though I can never know for absolute certain in this world, whether it was or not.

When I left John Steadiman in charge, the ship was still going at a great rate through the water.  The wind still blew right astern.  Though she was making great way, she was under shortened sail, and had no more than she could easily carry.  All was snug, and nothing complained.  There was a pretty sea running, but not a very high sea neither, nor at all a confused one.

I turned in, as we seamen say, all standing.  The meaning of that is, I did not pull my clothes off—­no, not even so much as my coat:  though I did my shoes, for my feet were badly swelled with the deck.  There was a little swing-lamp alight in my cabin.  I thought, as I looked at it before shutting my eyes, that I was so tired of darkness, and troubled by darkness, that I could have gone to sleep best in the midst of a million of flaming gas-lights.  That was the last thought I had before I went off, except the prevailing thought that I should not be able to get to sleep at all.