“Yes, it is impossible to believe, till some day you see a ship not your own ship (that isn’t so impressive), but some ship in company, blow up all of a sudden and plop under almost before you know what has happened to her.  Then you begin to believe.  Henceforth you go out for the work to see—­what you can see, and you keep on at it with the conviction that some day you will die from something you have not seen.  One envies the soldiers at the end of the day, wiping the sweat and blood from their faces, counting the dead fallen to their hands, looking at the devastated fields, the torn earth that seems to suffer and bleed with them.  One does, really.  The final brutality of it—­the taste of primitive passion—­the ferocious frankness of the blow struck with one’s hand—­the direct call and the straight response.  Well, the sea gave you nothing of that, and seemed to pretend that there was nothing the matter with the world.”

She interrupted, stirring a little.

“Oh, yes.  Sincerity—­frankness—­passion—­three words of your gospel.  Don’t I know them!”

“Think!  Isn’t it ours—­believed in common?” he asked, anxiously, yet without expecting an answer, and went on at once:  “Such were the feelings of the commanding officer.  When the night came trailing over the sea, hiding what looked like the hypocrisy of an old friend, it was a relief.  The night blinds you frankly—­and there are circumstances when the sunlight may grow as odious to one as falsehood itself.  Night is all right.

“At night the commanding officer could let his thoughts get away—­I won’t tell you where.  Somewhere where there was no choice but between truth and death.  But thick weather, though it blinded one, brought no such relief.  Mist is deceitful, the dead luminosity of the fog is irritating.  It seems that you ought to see.

“One gloomy, nasty day the ship was steaming along her beat in sight of a rocky, dangerous coast that stood out intensely black like an India-ink drawing on gray paper.  Presently the second in command spoke to his chief.  He thought he saw something on the water, to seaward.  Small wreckage, perhaps.

“‘But there shouldn’t be any wreckage here, sir,’ he remarked.

“‘No,’ said the commanding officer.  ’The last reported submarined ships were sunk a long way to the westward.  But one never knows.  There may have been others since then not reported nor seen.  Gone with all hands.’

“That was how it began.  The ship’s course was altered to pass the object close; for it was necessary to have a good look at what one could see.  Close, but without touching; for it was not advisable to come in contact with objects of any form whatever floating casually about.  Close, but without stopping or even diminishing speed; for in those times it was not prudent to linger on any particular spot, even for a moment.  I may tell you at once that the object was not dangerous in itself.  No use in describing it.  It may have been nothing more remarkable than, say, a barrel of a certain shape and colour.  But it was significant.