Soon after the land had hove into view, Imogene joined me. She had kept her feelings under whilst near Vanderdecken. Now, by my side, she stood with twenty emotions working in her, her nostrils quivering, her lips pale, the colour coming and going in her cheeks, the bright light that a passing hope flashed into her eyes dying out to the tearful shadowing of some bitter fear.
I said to her, very softly, and keeping my face as expressionless as my inward agitation would permit—for Vanderdecken and his mates conferred together near us, sometimes stopping close, sometimes pacing—"If this pace holds our anchor should be down by dusk."
"What will they do?" she asked.
"I have been asking that question of myself," I replied. "Were they human—of this earth—I could foretell their movements. No sooner were they come to an anchor than they would turn to and get the guns and cargo over to one side, that by listing the ship they might bring the leak out of water and save themselves this starving job of pumping. But we have to base conjecture upon men who are neither dead nor alive, who are Dutchmen besides, I mean of a dull and apathetic habit, and they may wait for daylight and so obtain rest, of which they should get as much as they want with the reliefs they are able to send to the pump."
"What should best fit your project, Geoffrey?"
"Oh," said I, under my breath, "if we are to escape we shall need a deserted deck and a sleeping ship."
"If this should come about to-night will you make the venture?"
"I cannot tell. Put it thus: if they shift the cargo after coming to an anchor with the idea of raising the leak clear, the work may occupy them all night. So all night long the ship will be alive and busy, and there will be no chance for me."
"But the ship will also be alive if they continue to ply the pump, which must be done if she is not to sink."
"Yes," said I, "so I may have to wait till to-morrow night."