It was not easy to say what he was listening for. He had all his crew on board, as well as all the passengers he was to carry over to Scotland. Every one of them lay below decks fast asleep, and there was no sound of talk to which the skipper might be listening.
As the storm came sweeping over the icebound gallias it threw itself upon the vessel, as though from old habit it would drive her through the water. And as the ship still stood fast the wind took hold of her again and again. It rattled all the little icicles that hung from her ropes and tackles, it made her timbers creak and groan. Her masts were strained and gave loud cracks, as though they would go by the board.
It was no quiet night. There was a muffled rustling in the air, as the snow came whizzing past; there was a patter and splash as the rain came pelting down.
And in the ice one crack after another opened with a noise like thunder, as though ships of war had been at sea exchanging heavy salvoes.
But to none of this was the skipper listening.
He stayed up the whole night, until a gray dawn spread over the sky; but still he did not hear the sound he was waiting for.
At last a singing, monotonous murmur was borne upon the night air, a rocking, caressing sound as of distant music.
Then the skipper hurried across the rowers' thwarts amidships to the lofty forecastle where his crew slept. "Turn out," he called to them, "and take your oars and boat-hooks! The time is almost come when we shall be free. I hear the roar of open water. I hear the song of the free waves."
The men left sleeping and came out at once. They posted themselves along the ship's sides, while the day slowly dawned.
When at last it was light enough for them to see what changes the night had brought, they found that all the creeks and channels were open far out to sea, but in the bay where they were frozen in not a fissure could be seen in the ice, which lay firm and unbroken.