Outside the roaring waves pounded upon the iron walls.

Were they not satiated?  This tragedy had taken all the grandeur out of the storm.  It was no longer a majestic phase of nature’s power, but an implacable demon, bellowing for a sacrifice.  And that poor woman, with her two children, hopefully scanning the shipping lists for news of the great steamer, news which, to her, meant only the safety of her husband.  Oh, it was pitiful!

Iris would not be undressed.  The maid sniveled a request to be allowed to remain with her mistress.  She would lie on a couch until morning.

Two staterooms had been converted into one to provide Miss Deane with ample accommodation.  There were no bunks, but a cozy bed was screwed to the deck.  She lay down, and strove to read.  It was a difficult task.  Her eyes wandered from the printed page to mark the absurd antics of her garments swinging on their hooks.  At times the ship rolled so far that she felt sure it must topple over.  She was not afraid; but subdued, rather astonished, placidly prepared for vague eventualities.  Through it all she wondered why she clung to the belief that in another day or two the storm would be forgotten, and people playing quoits on deck, dancing, singing coon songs in the music-room, or grumbling at the heat.

Things were ridiculous.  What need was there for all this external fury?  Why should poor sailors be cast forth to instant death in such awful manner?  If she could only sleep and forget—­if kind oblivion would blot out the storm for a few blissful hours!  But how could one sleep with the consciousness of that watery giant thundering his summons upon the iron plates a few inches away?

Then came the blurred picture of Captain Ross high up on the bridge, peering into the moving blackness.  How strange that there should be hidden in the convolutions of a man’s brain an intelligence that laid bare the pretences of that ravenous demon without.  Each of the ship’s officers, the commander more than the others, understood the why and the wherefore of this blustering combination of wind and sea.  Iris knew the language of poker.  Nature was putting up a huge bluff.

What was it the captain said in his little lecture?  “When a ship meets a cyclone north of the equator on a westerly course she nearly always has the wind at first on the port side, but, owing to the revolution of the gale, when she passes its center the wind is on the starboard side.”

Yes, that was right, as far as the first part was concerned.  Evidently they had not yet passed the central path.  Oh, dear!  She was so tired.  It demanded a physical effort to constantly shove away an unseen force that tried to push you over.  How funny that a big cloud should travel up against the wind!  And so, amidst confused wonderment, she lapsed into an uneasy slumber, her last sentient thought being a quiet thankfulness that the screw went thud-thud, thud-thud with such firm determination.