"Then bring her round to west—west an' a point south, an' hold her to it. You've got no Faith, Samuel Lloyd,—an' me wrestlin' with the Lord for you this three hours. See yonder!"—the skipper waved a hand towards the bows, and his voice rose to a note of triumph.
Sure enough, during the last two or three minutes the appearance of the fog had changed. It was dense still, but yellower in colour and even faintly luminous.
From the bridge came no answer.
"Liftin', that's what it is, an' I ask the Lord's pardon for lettin' myself be disturbed by ye."
The skipper turned to leave the ladder, of which he had climbed but half a dozen steps.
"Liftin' it may be "—Lloyd's voice arrested him—"but we're ashore somewheres, or close upon it. I can 'ear breakers—"
"Eh?"
"Listen!"
The skipper listened, all listened, the fog the while growing steadily more golden and luminous.
"Man, that's no sound of breakers—it's voices!"