For a time they are silent; their eyes directed over the stern, watching the foam in the ship’s wake, lit up with luminous phosphorescence.
They observe other scintillation besides that caused by the Condor’s keel. There are broad splatches of it all over the surface of the sea, with here and there elongated sillons, seemingly made by some creatures in motion, swimming parallel to the ship’s course, and keeping pace with her.
They have not voyaged through thirty degrees of the Pacific Ocean to be now ignorant of what these are. They know them to be sharks, as also that some of larger size and brighter luminosity are the tracks of the tintorera—that species so much-dreaded by the pearl-divers of Panama Bay and the Californian Gulf.
This night both tiburones and tintoreras are more numerous than they have ever observed them—closer also to the vessel’s side; for the sharks, observantly have seen a boat lowered down, which gives anticipation of prey within nearer reach of their ravenous jaws.
“Santissima!” exclaims Carmen, as one makes a dash at some waif drifting astern. “What a fearful thing it would be to fall overboard there—in the midst of those horrid creatures! One wouldn’t have the slightest chance of being saved. Only to think how little space there is between us and certain death! See that monster just below, with its great, glaring eyes! It looks as if it wanted to leap up, and lay hold of us. Ugh! I mustn’t keep my eyes on it any longer. It makes me tremble in a strange way. I do believe, if I continued gazing at it, I should grow giddy, and drop into its jaws.”
She draws back a pace or two, and for some moments remains silent—pensive. Perhaps she is thinking of a sailor saved from sharks after falling among them, and more still of the man who saved him. Whether or no, she soon again speaks, saying:
“Sobrina! are you not glad we’re so near the end of our voyage?”
“I’m not sorry, tia—I fancy no one ever is. I should be more pleased, however, if it were the end of our voyage, which unfortunately it isn’t. Before we see Spain, we’ve another equally as long.”
“True—as long in duration, and distance. But otherwise, it may be very different, and I hope more endurable. Across the Atlantic we’ll have passage in a big steamship, with a grand dining saloon, and state sleeping-rooms, each in itself as large as the main-cabin of the Condor. Besides, we’ll have plenty of company—passengers like ourselves. Let us hope they may turn out nice people. If so, our Atlantic voyage will be more enjoyable than this on the Pacific.”
“But we’ve been very comfortable in the Condor; and I’m sure Captain Lantanas has done all he could to make things agreeable for us.”