"No need to talk like that," said Sven Elversson.
But now Ung-Joel began to tell how one day, after the great fight in the North Sea, he had come sailing round the Skaw, and had seen the hosts of the dead floating on the surface of the sea.
They did not lie flat on the water, but were held upright by their lifebelts, with heads above water, so their features could be seen.
And Ung-Joel told how the vessel had sailed for hours among the dead—thousands and thousands of dead. The sea was covered with them.
He described many terrible sights he had seen, but what seemed most terrible of all to him was that all those dead men had their eyes torn out by the innumerable seagulls that hovered about their heads.
"And I'll tell you what happened to the second mate," said Joel. "He'd been standing looking at all this ghastliness a while, and then suddenly he shut his eyes and jumped overboard. We never saw him again. He knew he would never be able to live in peace after what he had seen. And I wish now I had done the same."
"Do not think so, Joel," said Sven Elversson.
"I've got those horrors fixed in my eyes now," said Joel—"fixed there so I can see it all if I shut them only for a moment. I daren't lie down; I must be on my feet day and night, to keep my eyes from closing."
"You must think of other things," said Sven Elversson. "You've a wife and children."
"I'll tell you what we did," said Ung-Joel. "We got out a couple of guns we had on board, and started firing at the gulls. It was a sort of relief: something to vent our rage on. And I think it was that that saved us.