Lastly, she
showed no light at peak or poop, and no sound of officer's command or of
boatswain's whistle came from her deck. Only slowly and yet as though of
set purpose she drifted in toward the quay.
Those who watched her, sailors such as ever linger about harbours
seeking their bread from the waters, though among these were mingled
people from the town who had come to this open place to escape the heat,
began to talk together affrightedly, but always in the dread whisper
that was the voice of this fearful knight. Yes, even the hoarse-throated
sailormen whispered like a dying woman.
"She's no ship," said one, "she's the wraith of a ship. When I was a lad
I saw such a craft in the Indian seas, and afterward we foundered, and I
and the cook's mate alone were saved."
"Pshaw!" answered another, "she's a ship right enough. Look at the weed
and barnacles on her sides when she heaves. Only where in Christ's name
are her crew?"
"Yes," said a third, "and how could she win through all the secret
channels without a pilot?"
"What use would be a pilot," said a fourth, "if there are none to work
the rudder and shift the sails? Do I not know, who am of the trade?"
"At least she is coming straight to the quay," exclaimed a fifth,
"though what sends her Satan alone knows, for the tide is slack and
this wind would scarce move a sponge boat. Stand by with the hawser, or
she'll swing round and stave herself against the pier.
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