Frederick shivered.  Had he ever lived with anything else than a spirit and spirits, that is, with ghosts?  And at this moment was he not farther removed than ever from what is considered immovable solid ground, from what is called reality?  In his state of mind, did he not believe in fairy tales, sailors’ superstitions, the Flying Dutchman, and hobgoblins?  What was that ocean hiding in its infinite waves rolling under the low, grey sky?  Had not everything arisen from the ocean?  Had not everything gone down into its depths again?  Had some power disclosed the submerged Atlantis to Frederick’s mental vision?  Why not?

He was passing through profound, enigmatic moments of a fearful yet pleasurable dread.  There was the ocean, on which an apparently abandoned vessel, a small spot in infinity, was staggering forward with no visible goal ahead and no visible starting-point behind.  There were the heavens lying heavily upon it, grey and dismal.  There was Frederick himself, alone.  Every animate creature in that solitude was transformed in his soul into visions, phantoms and apparitions.  Man is always facing the unfathomable alone.  That gives him a sense of greatness along with a sense of desertion.  There was a man standing at the stern of a vessel, while the darkness of night was yielding to the dawn, bound by the invisible, glowing threads of his fate to two continents of the globe, and awaiting the new, less tormenting form of life that comes from the sun, a strange star millions of miles removed from the planet earth.  All this was a miracle to Frederick, almost overwhelming him, as if he were imprisoned in marvels.  In a sudden seizure of hopelessness that he would ever throw off the suffocating oppression of riddles and miracles, the temptation came upon him to leap over the railing.  Close upon this feeling followed the timidity of a man with a bad conscience.  He glanced about, as if in fear of discovery.  He wiped his eyes and forehead with his hands, because it seemed to him that the dead stoker with the bloody wound had for a long time been sitting nearby on a coil of rope.  His chest felt heavy, as if a load were dragging it down.  He heard voices.  He saw his wife, Angele, wringing her hands.  Suddenly he thought he was to blame for her illness, that he was a criminal; and all his thoughts of Ingigerd Hahlstroem made him doubly despicable in his own eyes.  His ideas grew confused.  In a wave of absolute credulity, he thought the voice of his conscience was condemning him to death.  He thought that his life was being demanded as an atonement, that he must sacrifice himself, or else the Roland, with all it carried, would sink.

At that moment Frederick heard a strong voice saying: 

“Good morning, Doctor von Kammacher.”

It was the first mate, Von Halm, on his way to the bridge.  Before the healthy beauty of the human voice, the haunting visions instantly fled, and Frederick’s soul was restored to sanity.