“‘Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Sings my white head!’
Is not that fine, gentlemen? Now turn about with more shrugs, and drive me mad with your cant. Ha! ha! ha!”
His laughter was shocking. The seamen shrank away from him.
“He has gone mad with terror!” whispered the General.
The widow hid her face in her hands.