When they went on deck, about four bells in the middle watch, they were not surprised to find all hands on deck, eagerly gazing towards the spot where they had seen “the manèd monster of the deep,”—as poet Rory termed him—disappear.
It was a cold, dull cheerless morning; the sun was up but his beams were sadly shorn—they failed to pierce the thick canopy of clouds and mist that overspread the sky, and brought the horizon within a quarter of a mile of them. They could, however, easily see the ice-line—long and low and white.
A whole hour passed, and McBain at all events was thinking of going below, when suddenly came a shout from the men around the forecastle.
“Look! look! Oh! look! Yonder he rips! There he goes!”
Gazing in the direction indicated, the hearts of more than one of our heroes seemed to stand still with a strange, mysterious fear, for there, rushing over the surface of the dark water, the undulated body well-defined against the white ice-edge, was—what else could it be?—the great sea-serpent!
“I can see his mane and head and eyes,” cried Rory. “Oh! it is too dreadful.”
Then a shout from the masthead,—
“He is coming this way.”
It was true. The manèd monster had altered his course, and was bearing straight down upon the Arrandoon.
No one moved from his position, but there were pale, frightened faces and starting eyes; and though the men uttered no cry, a strange, frightened moan arose, a fearful quavering “Oh-h-h?”—a sound that once heard is never to be forgotten. Next moment, the great sea-serpent, with a wild and unearthly scream, bore down upon the devoted ship, then suddenly resolved itself into a long flight of sea-birds (Arctic divers)!