It was past daylight when Anthony appeared once more; despite the mist that enveloped the vessel, he became aware of a vast loom to his larboard; it was huge, dark, rearing; he hastily stepped across the deck, and there found mademoiselle.
"It is a ship," she said; "we must have come alongside it in the night. Mr. Corkery thinks it's one of the wrecks we were watching yesterday."
Corkery, hearing Anthony's voice, approached.
"I have made fast to her," he said. "It's a large vessel of a kind I do not know, and she seems to lie quite still."
"We have reached one of the outer vessels of the group we saw yesterday," said mademoiselle. "I do not think we have gone among them, for we have collided with none."
"True enough, mademoiselle," said Corkery; "with sun-up I think we'll see your word made good."
But it was still early; the mist clung to the ship, to the surface of the sea, poisonous, thick; through it the lanterns burned a feeble yellow. The vast timbers of the vessel at whose side they lay were rotted and dripped with slime; they could feel open seams, gaping like mouths; when they spoke their voices came back from its hollows as though from a cavern. They felt chilled, and their spirits ran low.
Tom Horn, much to the surprise of mademoiselle and Anthony, appeared at breakfast: it was the first time he had sat down with them since the Roebuck entered the Sargasso; he had kept the deck night and day, and what little food he'd eaten had been taken to him by the cook. He had one of his charts with him and unrolled it upon the table.
"In an hour the mist will lift, and we shall be able to see," said he. "And this," his finger pointing to a spot among the figures and signs upon the sheet, "is what we shall see."
The girl and the young man leaned forward and studied the chart; but the figures told them nothing.