“You’re tired, Doctor von Kammacher,” said Wilhelm.  “So I won’t invite you to the stoker’s funeral on the after-deck.”

“Oh, I’ll come,” said Frederick.  He was obsessed by a stinging rage not to spare himself anything, but to taste to the dregs even the bitterest impressions of this detached, jogged and jolted fragment of a human world.

XLIV

The physicians arrived when they were sewing the stoker, Zickelmann, into sail-cloth.  The bare cabin was not very brilliantly lighted by a single electric bulb.  Frederick recalled his dream—­how the dead stoker had been standing under the vines with the cords in his hand and had then led Peter Schmidt and himself to the Toilers of the Light.  A great change had taken place in his appearance.  His face was no longer of flesh, but seemed to be chiselled out of yellow wax, to which his hair, his eyebrows and beard were pasted.  A faint, cunning smile seemed to be curving his mouth; and when Frederick with odd interest and curiosity scrutinised him closely, it seemed to him he was saying, “Legno santo! Toilers of the Light!”

When the dead man’s face was covered up and his whole body had been sewed into the cloth in coarse stitches, the sailors bound the puppet, with difficulty keeping it in position, on a smoothly planed board, weighted with iron.

“Will such a chrysalis ever really turn into a butterfly?” Frederick wondered.

The procedure, a piece of reeling, staggering acrobatics, was less gruesome than ridiculous.  Yet, though this long package might be only the mortal shell of an immortal soul, one had a sense of infinite sadness in entrusting it to the fearful solitudes of the ocean.

Since in the stormy weather it was no easy matter to throw the corpse overboard and since it was impossible to conduct ceremonies on a rolling deck constantly washed by the waves, the purser asked the few persons present—­Captain von Kessel could not leave the bridge—­to say a silent prayer for the soul of the dead man.  They did so, and four of the stoker’s mates, staggering, stopping, lurching and panting, carried the long package on deck to the railing, where at the word of command they let it slide into the sea.

When Doctor Wilhelm bade Frederick good-night, he added: 

“You ought to try to go to sleep.”

They parted, and Frederick hunted for a sheltered spot on deck, where he could spend the night.  He wanted to look the wind and weather straight in the face, there in the glacial air, in the gloom under the pale sheen of the arc-lights fastened to the mast.  He shuddered at the thought of a night in the oppressive confines of his cabin, with the closed port-hole and the hot, stale air.  But that alone was not the reason which kept him chained to the deck.  It was the urge, in case of danger, to be near Ingigerd Hahlstroem.  And when he seated himself near the smoke-stack, with his back against the heated wall, his hat drawn low over his face, his chin in his coat collar, he suddenly laughed to himself bitterly.  It was in the same position and on the selfsame spot that he had found Achleitner the night before.