The Boatswain pipes and cries to quarters. They are rushing about pulling ropes, and launching the boats.
Scene changes.
Scene IV.
Deck of the Golden Hind—Midnight, the moon behind a cloud, constellations of the southern hemisphere brilliant in the deep blue firmament. The ship Argo amid the waves, the dove, bird of hope. The raven on the back of the sea serpent. Noah sacrificing at the altar.
Drake (solus, looking at the stars). Yes! Yes! This is no fancy, no vain imagination, no conceit of poesy—visible to sight and evident to sense. It is, it must be—The ark of promise, the greatest fact of history—The deluge, writ by God himself in his own firmament, eternal monument of wrath and justice. I never questioned sacred truth, but if I had that constellation were itself enough to anchor my soul to reason, and bid the baseless doubt begone! (A figure appears in the air with a book under one arm, whilst the other points to the Constellation Argo. The figure is turbaned and otherwise brilliant with the hues of an oriental costume. His long white hair and beard float like a streamer on the deep blue of the sky. Drake starts and staggers back with uplifted hands). Hah! Wherefore now? Is this the end? Art come to see my horoscope fulfilled? Zill-Allah! Shadow of God, Arab Astrologer, or Jew of Fez, or whatsoe’er thou art that visitest me so oft, in sleeping, aye, and in waking dreams, since first I learned the stars from thee under the clear sky of burning Africa, still as now before me. Thy beard of snow floats like a meteor, under thine arm a book, the other pointing to thy early lesson. (The Spirit gradually disappears—dissolving into a brilliant white cloud which suddenly becomes dark, whilst the dove on the ark becomes brilliantly illumined. A voice says, “Have faith, look up.” Drake starting in horror looks around). Who speaks? (No answer.) I do not surely dream! I heard a voice which said, “Have faith, look up.” I look, (a pause of wonder). Bright bird of hope, I take thy luminous omen, I will have faith. My God, the work is Thine, Thy servant in thy hand is but the staff, the wood cannot lift itself. Let it not glory, have faith. (He falls down upon one knee, his face buried in his hands in deep thought).
Enter John Drake.
John Drake. My brother, did you call? You look troubled. Ah! This is the last of us. Our stirring lives are now near acted out. The first slight swell will dash our bark to pieces.
Drake. I fear not death, how often have I braved it—I trust in him who hitherto has shaped my course. What I have seemed to do with means inadequate is evidence of power beyond me. My destiny is not my own to deal with. He who made me has the right to end me. And now I know deliverance is at hand, though human skill do nothing towards it. See you this southern vault of heaven, ’tis one great oceanic record of the past, (he points to the Constellation Argo.)
John Drake. You mean the Constellation Argo, the famous ship of Jason and the Golden Fleece. The dove that sits upon it! What a strange light it flashes.
Drake. Ship of Jason, humph! Tradition grand, perverted to a Grecian fable. That is the ark of Noah! I never told you how at Fez, a sage once took strange fancy to me, and taught me knowledge of the spheres. A man of wonderment and awe, he came and went unquestioned and unknown, without a friend or country, yet with boundless wealth. Some thought he was an Indian necromancer, some a Jew, some said he was an Arab, and practised Alchemy. He cast my horoscope, and told my destiny. “Born,” he said, “for great adventures, strange revolutions on the sea, a pebble in the sling of God to smite the power of Spain, and raise thy country to her place.” (He walks musing).