“Ay, ay, sir.”
Miss Aurora sat over against me at this meal as at most others; she stared at me as though something was wrong. I did not wonder; I had been unable to conceal my astonishment at Greaves’ orders for divine service. Down to this moment he had never read a prayer to the men, never exhibited the least disposition to do so, never imported the faintest shadow of anything religious into the dull and swinish routine of the brig. It was somewhat late in the day to lay up on that tack, methought. But it was for me to obey, and I went on deck, leaving Greaves sitting. Miss Aurora followed, and touched my elbow as I passed through the companion hatch.
“What is it?” said she, in English.
“Nothing, nothing,” I answered, smiling and shaking my head, for it would have given me a deal too much to act, with Yan Bol and the fellow at the wheel as spectators, to gesticulate Greaves’ intention to collect all hands to prayers.
“No danger?” said she, speaking again in English.
“No, no,” I responded heartily.
She touched her forehead, clasped her hands, and turned up her eyes to heaven with one of her incomparable expressions of tragic melancholy, sighed heavily, and returned to the cabin.
“Bol,” said I, stepping up to the great Dutchman where he stood near the wheel, “you will see that the men clean themselves and muster aft by half-past ten for divine service.”
“What’s dot?” said he.
“Prayers.”