wholly alone with my command; for there was that stranger in my
cabin. Or rather, I was not completely and wholly with her. Part
of me was absent. That mental feeling of being in two places at
once affected me physically as if the mood of secrecy had
penetrated my very soul. Before an hour had elapsed since the ship
had begun to move, having occasion to ask the mate (he stood by my
side) to take a compass bearing of the Pagoda, I caught myself
reaching up to his ear in whispers. I say I caught myself, but
enough had escaped to startle the man. I can't describe it
otherwise than by saying that he shied. A grave, preoccupied
manner, as though he were in possession of some perplexing
intelligence, did not leave him henceforth. A little later I moved
away from the rail to look at the compass with such a stealthy gait
that the helmsman noticed it--and I could not help noticing the
unusual roundness of his eyes. These are trifling instances,
though it's to no commander's advantage to be suspected of
ludicrous eccentricities. But I was also more seriously affected.
There are to a seaman certain words, gestures, that should in given
conditions come as naturally, as instinctively as the winking of a
menaced eye. A certain order should spring on to his lips without
thinking; a certain sign should get itself made, so to speak,
without reflection. But all unconscious alertness had abandoned
me. I had to make an effort of will to recall myself back (from
the cabin) to the conditions of the moment. I felt that I was
appearing an irresolute commander to those people who were watching
me more or less critically.

And, besides, there were the scares. On the second day out, for
instance, coming off the deck in the afternoon (I had straw
slippers on my bare feet) I stopped at the open pantry door and