Literally, Martin could not see his hand before his face. Nor could he see the door to the cabin alleyway, that he had just closed, though he had stepped but a couple of paces away from it. Nor could he see Sails, though the latter stood but an arm's length distant. Sails's hoarse whisper came through the gloom:
"Ye see the night, lad? Och, 'tis a night for evil!"
Martin shivered at the sound of Sails' dismal croaking. See the night! He could see nothing. The other's voice came out of an impenetrable void. Above him, beneath him, all about him, was nothing but blackness, thick, clinging gloom. The Stygian, fog-filled night crushed, like a heavy, intangible weight; one choked for breath.
Martin felt like an atom lost in back immensity. He wanted to shout at the top of his voice. But what he did do was lift his voice gently, so the words would not arouse the sleepers in the cabin.
"Little Billy! Billy!" he called.
His call was swallowed up, smothered, by the night. He strained his ears. But the only answer was the eery cry of a night-flying gull and the deep moaning of the sea upon the rocks—that and the hoarse, uneasy breathing of the invisible MacLean.
Martin was more than disturbed by that silence.
"Sails, who are the foc'sle hands who have this watch?" he said.
"Rimoa and Oomak," came MacLean's voice. "They were for'rd when I came aft for you."
Martin called again, along the decks.