"Pay no heed to these—" she was interrupted by another mighty thump and cataract roar—"these blows of Thor's hammer," she cried.
"Play me for an anvil," he returned.
She descended to the depths, to reassure the men. Talking with shrill cheerfulness at each doorway was easy. It helped her to go down, down, feeling stone and iron trembling as every surge was hurled many feet above her head. At last, she stood on the lowest floor. Beneath her feet was naught but granite and iron bars. Here was solidity. How grateful to know of this firm base, rooted in the very world. Her heart leaped to her mouth, but not with fear. She was proud of the lighthouse, strong in the knowledge of its majestic strength.
Nevertheless, in this place, the source of her own sense of security, she found uneasiness among the men. They were all sailors in this lowest habitable region. Their pre-conceived ideas had been rudely reversed. The ship, the noble structure which defied the storm by yielding to its utmost fury, had for them no terrors. But the stark pillar which flinched from no assault bewildered them. It was impossible to believe that it could withstand the strain. Ha! Listen to that. The battering-ram of ocean applied to a thin shaft of stone. Surely it must be pounded into fragments.
Said one, with indefinite bellow amidst the black turmoil: "I can't stand this, mates."
"Up aloft for me!" cried another.
"Let's die with our eyes open, anyhow," chimed in a third.
But a light flashed in the rolling orbs of the man who was already on the stairs. Astounded, he drew back. Constance stood in their midst, a mere girl, radiant, smilingly unconcerned, addressing them in calm words broken only by the fitful noises.
"Sorry your quarters—so very unpleasant. Only last a—couple of hours. Twenty-five years—far worse gales. Want any more cocoa?"
"Thank you kindly, miss, we're quite comfortable." This from the man who wished to die with his eyes open.