“Yes, on and on and on.”
“I should lose my head.”
“We don’t—something seems to guide us onward.”
“I suppose you see some terrible sights? Have you seen a shipwreck? I should like to.”
“Oh no, no, you would not. If you once saw a shipwreck, or a ship foundering at sea, you would never never forget it.”
“Tell me.”
“I cannot. No one could. But somehow it is usually at night we witness these awful scenes. I have seen a ship sailing silently over the moonlit water, the yellow light streaming from her ports, and I have heard the sounds of music and laughter, and the voices of glad children at play. And I have seen the same vessel, but a short hour after, drifting on in the darkness to the pitiless rocks before a white squall. Ah! white was the squall, white were the waves, but not more white than the scared, dazed faces of those poor shrinking, moaning beings who rushed on deck when she struck.”
“What did you do?”
“Flew away. Just flew away.”
“Tell me more.”