“I do not say somewhere near, for the wind may have brought this dense blackness from hundreds of miles distant but certainly I should say that one of the many volcanoes in this region is in eruption.”
“If it were, sir, we should be having fine ashes coming down upon us,” said the mate, gruffly, “and—”
“What’s that?” cried Panton, holding up his hand.
“Thunder,” said the mate, as a deep, apparently distant concussion was heard.
“No, the explosion from some crater,” said Panton. “Hark!”
Another deep muttering report was heard, and soon after another and another.
“Only a bad thunderstorm,” cried the mate. “There, let’s go and get some food, gentlemen, and see how our friends are. I daresay we shall be having a deluge of rain before long, and then the sun will come out and I can take an observation.”
He led the way to the cabin, where the steward had prepared a meal and retrimmed the lamps, going about with a scared look on his countenance, and turning his eyes appealingly from one to the other as the thunderlike reports kept on; but, getting no sympathy from those to whom he appealed silently, for they were as nervous as himself, he sought his opportunity and, following Oliver Lane into a corner, he began,—
“Oh, sir, the destruction’s awful.”
“But the ship is sound yet, and making no water.”