He went into his cabin, and in a moment they heard the cords of his bed straining under his weight as he threw himself down.
"How tired he must be!" said the girl. "Day and night he fought for our lives. Oh, I trust there will be nothing more to try him."
"Hark!" said Tom Horn, as he held up his hand and she listened. There was a creaking of blocks, a humming among the cordage, a crowding of wind into the sails. And the seas were heard leaping monotonously at the great prow like running wolves at the throat of a buck.
"It is the wind and the sea," said Tom Horn. "There is no evil in either in this region. But evil may ride them, as one may ride an honest horse to do a wrongful deed."
Mademoiselle's eyes widened, but she said nothing.
"We are in clean seas," said Tom in his hushed voice. "God's sky is over us, and we've kept our way through many dangers. But we've taken from the Sargasso what it claimed for its own; and a curse will reach from a long way off if the spirit in it be very bitter. Everywhere in that strange sea is the stink of evil; wrong springs up like lush grass; horror takes shapes that even God had not foreseen." His voice went to a whisper. "But in the months I was there I came to know the great truth: I learned that the world, the sea, and the wind went round and round, never stopping; and the knowledge of this law helped me to make away from my captivity." He shook his head, and the mild look of a child was in his face. "But the Sargasso had claimed me, and one day it found me out; the winds carried its curse to me, and it was then that its haze came between me and the world."
In the forecastle the sailorman who stood so courageously with Anthony through the storm slept soundly. And now mademoiselle, weary beyond thought, went to her cabin and also slept. In the late afternoon light Tom Horn kept the deck like a quiet wraith; the seamen from the brig held the ship upon her course with an easy hand; gray of face, and with eyes hot with fever, Captain Weir lay without movement, the brace of pistols beside him; to the south the brig, under scant sail, bounded like a checked hound.
And Anthony slept. Fatigue had unbraced and slackened his body; he had sunk so deeply into the strange place of sleep that only the stirring of his heart kept him in the world. His mind received no impressions; his nerves were still; and he lay at a great depth for a long time. Then he arose to the lower level of dreams; he had a dull, formless sense of himself; then he realized other things and gradually came to speculate upon them. Feet raced across the vault of heaven; the corners of the world were straining; there was a thundering as of wind in many sails; great voices lifted against each other like blades.
But this passed, and he sank again; darkness held him; he did not move. But light will creep through the scum of a tarn; it will brighten dull, still water; it will plunge its shining arm deep into the muck and bring up those living things which have only heard the first faint whisperings of the world. A sound once more lifted Anthony from the pit; again he lay at the dream level, and the sound broke urgently over him. It had a dim, mournful insistance; he could not bear it; all the trouble God permitted seemed in the sound; and his heart raced in pity and desire. His spirit struggled heavily; but his body had no footing in the world; it lay like the dead. He suffered keenly. The call broke in shrill waves through the gray place of sleep. He was wanted! Somewhere—some one needed him. Bitterly he strove upward; he fought as a dark angel might have fought, under the foot of Michael; he raved and cursed and fought upward from level to level; the vagueness fell from him like rent veils. He burst through the gates of sleep. His body leaped up.
It was mademoiselle who was calling.