The fishermen gathered at the side of the pitching ship and held on to one another and to the wet woodwork.
"It is a man. It walketh on the water!"
"It is the ghost of John whose head Herod took off!"
"Walks it without a head?"
"Nay, it hath a head."
"It is a spectre. It treadeth the way of death and that swirling pool over which it hovereth is our grave!"
"Look you! Look—my Lord—my Lord! A light cometh where the face is. God of our fathers—it is Jesus walking the waters like a bird of the storm! When gat he from the ship? Watch thee the spirit, James, while I find the place he lay." And Peter fell on his hands and knees and started to creep toward the pile of fish-nets in the other end of the boat.
In terror the men he had left huddled together, except James who watched the spirit moving over the water. A cry from Peter drew their attention. "He is here," they heard him shouting above the whistle of the wind. "He is sleeping as if the soul of him had departed!"
"Wake him! Shout into his ear that we perish—we perish—" The last words of James who had called, were swallowed up by the hissing of a wave which broke over the deck and threw the men into the rigging and nets.
"Waken him before she takes the next wave! Hasten!"