“What has the name of Vanderdecken to do with it?” observed Kloots.
“Have you not heard, then? The captain of that vessel we have just seen is a Mynheer Vanderdecken—he is the Flying Dutchman!”
“How know you that, pilot?” inquired Hillebrant.
“I know that, and much more, if I chose to tell,” replied Schriften; “but never mind, I have warned you of bad weather, as is my duty;” and, with these words, Schriften went down the poop-ladder.
“God in heaven! I never was so puzzled and so frightened in my life,” observed Kloots. “I don’t know what to think or say.—What think you, Philip? was it not supernatural?”
“Yes,” replied Philip, mournfully. “I have no doubt of it.”
“I thought the days of miracles had passed,” said the captain, “and that we were now left to our own exertions, and had no other warnings but those the appearance of the heavens gave us.”
“And they warn us now,” observed Hillebrant. “See how that bank of clouds has risen within these five minutes—the moon has escaped from it but it will soon catch her again—and see, there is a flash of lightning in the north-west.”
“Well, my sons, I can brave the elements as well as any man, and do my best. I have cared little for gales or stress of weather; but I like not such a warning as we have had tonight. My heart’s as heavy as lead, and that’s the truth. Philip, send down for the bottle of schnapps, if it is only to clear my brain a little.”
Philip was glad of an opportunity to quit the poop; he wished to have a few minutes to recover himself and collect his own thoughts. The appearance of the Phantom Ship had been to him a dreadful shock; not that he had not fully believed in its existence; but still, to have beheld, to have been so near that vessel—that vessel in which his father was fulfilling his awful doom—that vessel on board of which he felt sure that his own destiny was to be worked out—had given a whirl to his brain. When he had heard the sound of the boatswain’s whistle on board of her, eagerly had he stretched his earing to catch the order given—and given, he was convinced, in his father’s voice. Nor had his eyes been less called to aid in his attempt to discover the features and dress of those moving on her decks. As soon, then, as he had sent the boy up to Mynheer Kloots Philip hastened to his cabin and buried his face in the coverlid of his bed, and then he prayed—prayed until he had recovered his usual energy and courage, and brought his mind to that state of composure which could enable him to look forward calmly to danger and difficulty, and feel prepared to meet it with the heroism of a martyr.