Greaves was making certain calculations with a pencil on a sheet of paper, and I, with a pair of compasses, was measuring the distance of the island from the mainland, when we were startled by the roaring voice of Yan Bol, whose full face was thrust into the open skylight.
“For der love of Cott, captain, goom on deck und see vhat vhas wrong! Der sea vhas on fire. Quick! or ve vhas all burnt up.”
“What does he say?” cried Greaves, who had been unable to promptly disengage his attention from his calculations.
“He says that the sea is on fire and that we shall all be burnt up,” I exclaimed, picking up my cap; and, in a moment, we were both on deck.
“Der sea vhas on fire!” thundered Yan Bol as we stepped through the hatch.
I looked ahead over the bows of the brig, and the sea all that way was splendid and terrible with light. I call it light, but light it was not, unless that be light which is made by snow in darkness. It was a wonderful whiteness that seemed a sort of fire. It blended the junction of sea and sky into a wide and ghastly glare, and the light of the white water rolled upward into the sky as the clearly-defined edge of the milky surface advanced, as you see a blue edge of breeze sweeping over a silver surface of dead calm. The sea where the brig was sailing was black, as it had been before we went below, and in the deep, soft, indigo dusk over our mastheads the stars were shining; but the sparkling of the luminaries languished over our fore yardarms, and it was easy to guess that, if the coming whiteness spread, the sky and all that was shining in it would be hidden.
“Captain,” cried Bol, “vhat in der good anchel’s name vhas she?”
“A star has fallen,” answered Greaves, “and is shining at the bottom of the sea.”
“A star? Vhat, a star from der sky?”
“Where do stars grow?” said Greaves.