"Voices!"
"Voices—voices of singin'. Ah!"—the skipper caught suddenly at the rail again—"a revelation! Hark!"
He was right. Far and faint ahead of the steamer's bows, where the fog, meeting the sun's rays, slowly arched itself into a splendid halo— a solid wall no longer, but a doorway for the light, and hung with curtains that momentarily wore thinner—there, where the water began to take a tinge of flame, sounded the voices of men and women, or of angels, singing together. And while the crew of the Evan Evans strained their ears the hymn grew audible—
'Nearer—and nearer still,
We to our country come;
To that celestial Hill,
The weary pilgrim's home! . . .'
Arthur Miles had clutched Tilda's hand. She herself gazed and listened, awe-struck. The sound of oars mingled now with the voices, and out of the glory ahead three forms emerged and took shape—three boats moving in solemn procession.
They were of unusual length, and black—at any rate, seen against that golden haze, they appeared black as Erebus. In the bows of each sat a company of people singing as they pulled at the long oars; and in the stern of each, divided from the rowers by the cargo—but what that cargo was could not yet be distinguished—stood a solitary steersman.
Patently these people were unaware of the steamer's approach. They were heading straight across her path—were, in fact, dangerously close—when at length the seaman on the bridge recovered presence of mind to sound her whistle, at the same time ringing down to stop the engines.
As the whistle sounded the singing ceased abruptly, the steersmen thrust over their tillers in a flurry, and of the rowers some were still backing water as the boats drifted close, escaping collision by a few yards.
"Ahoy there!"
"Ahoy!" came the answer. "Who are you?"