“That was bad,” said Wilhelm, slamming the door shut in the nick of time.  Frederick’s nerves were in a state of tension, not in a mere metaphoric sense.  They produced a purely physical sensation, as of violin strings too tightly drawn.

“Is it making you nervous?” asked Hahlstroem.

“Somewhat,” said Frederick.  “I don’t deny it.  A man has strength and intelligence, but can’t exercise either, even when danger is imminent.”

“Immediate danger?” asked Wilhelm.  “No, we are not there yet.  In the first place, the engines will be working again pretty soon; and secondly, even if we should really have to drift and had to resort to the sails, we could count on being perfectly easy in our minds a week from now.”

“What do you mean by being easy in our minds?” demanded Hahlstroem.

“The storm is blowing from north-northwest.  A ship like this never capsizes.  So, in all probability, we should be carried to the Azores, where a steamer would tow us into port.  Or, perhaps, we should be driven even further south, and in a week we should be anchoring in view of the glorious Peak of Teneriffe.”

“Many thanks for your Peak of Teneriffe.  I have to be in New York.  My daughter has an engagement there.  We are under obligations to be there.”

“A week of uncertainty would be ruin to my nervous system,” said Frederick.  “I am not suited for this passive heroism.  I might do more if I could be active.”

“You’ve read the ‘Leather-stocking Tales,’” said Wilhelm, ironically.  “You know that the American Indians have greater respect for passive heroism.  Think of the stakes on which they burn their captives to death.”

“Never mind,” said Frederick.  “No martyr stakes for me.  Were I to hear that the screw is broken and we should have to drift, my nerves couldn’t stand it.  I would jump into the water.  That is why I am against life-preservers.  I wouldn’t accept one if it were offered to me ten times over.  Why prolong the death agony?”

XLII

The hours passed.  The grey day went down into still greyer twilight.  The ear-splitting tumult of the sea never ceased.  Frederick, like everybody else, had in vain awaited the moment when the engines would be working again, and the helpless ship would resume its course.  Everybody, with the anxiety of despair, watched whether the intervals between the great swells would lengthen or shorten.  Sometimes a superstitious illusion that he was being persecuted would take hold of Frederick.  Particularly awful were the cries of the emigrants penned in the steerage, which at short intervals penetrated above on deck.  They wept and wailed and shrieked to heaven for help.  They were like men driven mad by fear, fury and physical pain.

Yet, as if nothing had happened, the call for dinner was trumpeted at the regular time through the gangways of the drifting vessel, through that majestic, helpless ark, lighted by electricity, which, shining through the port-holes, turned the Roland with its crust of ice into a fairy palace, a mournful plaything of the waves.