A glacial calm held the sea, a calm underrun by a tremendous swell. A long, tremendous swell, an infinite heaving of the very depths of the ocean finding expression here in acre-wide undulations, solemn, slow to the eye, rhythmical and sonorous.
The beating of the breakers seemed ruled by a metronome.
There was no little wave and big wave, no hesitation of the sea. The breakers were equidistant and equal in volume, and their pace was set to the same funeral march.
Schumer came out of the tent, and, catching sight of Floyd, walked toward him.
"There must be a lot of damp or electricity or something in the air," said he. "I feel like a rag."
"Look at the sea," said Floyd; "there has been a big storm somewhere, if I am not greatly mistaken."
Schumer stood looking at the sea.
The sun seemed bright as ever, yet the water did not respond to his light; it had at once a surface brilliancy and a dullness in its depths. Toward the shore it was bottle green, and even the blue far out had a trace of tourmaline.
Schumer said nothing, and turned away to the camping place, where Isbel was making the fire.
"Shall we go on with the diving to-day?" asked Floyd, as they breakfasted.