“It’s that cursed mountain,” said Stock at last. “She’s blown her side out—must have occurred just after we left Boston or we’d have had news of it by cable from some of the other islands, sure.”
They rose to go on deck, but before doing so they looked in to see how Gaspard was doing.
He had recovered consciousness, but he lay like a man dazed after some terrible accident. His eyes were fixed as if on some form seen only by himself and on his cheek there were tears.
They spoke to him and he heard, but he made no reply, only a movement of the hand as though to say, “Let me be.”
CHAPTER XLVI
ASHES
When they came on deck, the vessel, still on her course had drawn nearer to the land, several men-of-war and relief ships were at anchor in the bay.
The crew of the Anne Martin were held spellbound by the disaster, just as their officers had been. Nor did use to the scene break the spell, for the nearer they approached the more appalling did the picture of destruction appear.
Had you not known of the catastrophe, had you not known that this place a few weeks ago was the most beautiful corner of the world, you would have said, “this is surely the great cinder dumping ground of the universe. Here from the beginning of time men have cast their ashes and cities their detritus, if I were to poke a stick amidst all that I would surely find amphorae from Sparta and broken gourds from Nineveh along with the empty tomato tins and the broken crockery-ware of the modern world. What a horror. How dare Time expose this rubbish heap to insult the gaze of the Creator, this monstrosity of desolation to insult the eye of man.”