“Hark ye yet again—­the little lower layer.  All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks.  But in each event—­in the living act, the undoubted deed—­there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask.  If man will strike, strike through the mask!  How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall?  To me, the white whale is that wall, shoved near to me.  Sometimes I think there’s naught beyond.  But ’tis enough.  He tasks me; he heaps me; I see in him outrageous strength, with an inscrutable malice sinewing it.  That inscrutable thing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent, or be the white whale principal, I will wreak that hate upon him.  Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me.  For could the sun do that, then could I do the other; since there is ever a sort of fair play herein, jealousy presiding over all creations.  But not my master, man, is even that fair play.  Who’s over me?  Truth hath no confines.  Take off thine eye! more intolerable than fiends’ glarings is a doltish stare!  So, so; thou reddenest and palest; my heat has melted thee to anger-glow.  But look ye, Starbuck, what is said in heat, that thing unsays itself.  There are men from whom warm words are small indignity.  I meant not to incense thee.  Let it go.  Look! see yonder Turkish cheeks of spotted tawn—­living, breathing pictures painted by the sun.  The Pagan leopards—­the unrecking and unworshipping things, that live; and seek, and give no reasons for the torrid life they feel!  The crew, man, the crew!  Are they not one and all with Ahab, in this matter of the whale?  See Stubb! he laughs!  See yonder Chilian! he snorts to think of it.  Stand up amid the general hurricane, thy one tost sapling cannot, Starbuck!  And what is it?  Reckon it.  ’Tis but to help strike a fin; no wondrous feat for Starbuck.  What is it more?  From this one poor hunt, then, the best lance out of all Nantucket, surely he will not hang back, when every foremast-hand has clutched a whetstone.  Ah! constrainings seize thee; I see! the billow lifts thee!  Speak, but speak!—­Aye, aye! thy silence, then, that voices thee.  (Aside) Something shot from my dilated nostrils, he has inhaled it in his lungs.  Starbuck now is mine; cannot oppose me now, without rebellion.”

“God keep me!—­keep us all!” murmured Starbuck, lowly.

But in his joy at the enchanted, tacit acquiescence of the mate, Ahab did not hear his foreboding invocation; nor yet the low laugh from the hold; nor yet the presaging vibrations of the winds in the cordage; nor yet the hollow flap of the sails against the masts, as for a moment their hearts sank in.  For again Starbuck’s downcast eyes lighted up with the stubbornness of life; the subterranean laugh died away; the winds blew on; the sails filled out; the ship heaved and rolled as before.  Ah, ye admonitions and warnings! why stay ye not when ye come?  But rather are ye predictions than warnings, ye shadows!  Yet not so much predictions from without, as verifications of the fore-going things within.  For with little external to constrain us, the innermost necessities in our being, these still drive us on.