Desmond’s position was perplexing.  Where was he?  Perforce he had lost his bearings.  He scanned the whole circumference of the horizon, and saw nothing but the vast dark ocean plain and its immense blue dome—­never a yard of land, never a stitch of canvas.  He had no means of ascertaining his latitude.  During the twelve hours of the storm the grab had been driven at a furious rate; if the wind had blown all the time from the southeast, the quarter from which it had struck the vessel, she must now be at least fifty miles from the coast, possibly more, and north of Bombay.  In the inky blackness of the night, amid the blinding rain, it had been impossible to read anything from the stars.  All was uncertain, save the golden sheen of sunlight in the east.

Desmond’s only course was to put the vessel about and steer by the sun.  She must thus come sooner or later in sight of the coast, and then one or the other of the men on board might recognize a landmark—­a hill, a promontory, a town.  The danger was that they might make the coast in the neighborhood of one of the Pirate’s strongholds; but that must be risked.

For the rest of the day there were light variable winds, such as, according to Fuzl Khan, might be expected at that season of the year.  The northeast monsoon was already overdue.  Its coming was usually heralded by fitful and uncertain winds, varied by such squalls or storms as they had just experienced.

The sea moderated early in the morning, and became continually smoother until, as the sun went down, there was scarce a ripple on the surface.  The wind meanwhile had gradually veered to the southwest, and later to the west, and the grab began to make more headway.  But with the fall of night it dropped to a dead calm, a circumstance from which the Gujarati inferred that they were still a long way from the coast.  When the stars appeared, however, and Desmond was able to get a better idea of the course to set, a slight breeze sprang up again from the west, and the grab crept along at a speed of perhaps four knots.

It had been a lazy day on board.  The crew had recovered from their sickness, but there was nothing for them to do, and as orientals they were quite content to do nothing.  Only the Babu remained off duty, in addition to the watch below.  Desmond visited him, and persuaded him to take some food; but nothing would induce him to come on deck; the mere sight of the sea, he said, would externalize his interior.

It was Desmond’s trick at the wheel between eight and midnight.  Gulam Abdullah was on the lookout; the rest of the crew were forward squatting on the deck in a circle around Fuzl Khan.  Desmond, thinking of other things, heard dully, as from a great distance, the drone of the Gujarati’s voice.  He was talking more freely and continuously than was usual with him; ordinarily his manner was morose; he was a man of few words, and those not too carefully chosen.  So prolonged was the monotonous murmur, however, that Desmond by and by found himself wondering what was the subject of his lengthy discourse; he even strained his ears to catch, if it might be, some fragments of it; but nothing came into distinctness out of the low-pitched tone.