In the next few seconds the Captain spoke to the engine-room and got an
answer.

For some reason Jukes experienced an access of confidence, a sensation
that came from outside like a warm breath, and made him feel equal to
every demand. The distant muttering of the darkness stole into his ears.
He noted it unmoved, out of that sudden belief in himself, as a man safe
in a shirt of mail would watch a point.

The ship laboured without intermission amongst the black hills of water,
paying with this hard tumbling the price of her life. She rumbled in
her depths, shaking a white plummet of steam into the night, and
Jukes' thought skimmed like a bird through the engine-room, where Mr.
Rout--good man--was ready. When the rumbling ceased it seemed to him
that there was a pause of every sound, a dead pause in which Captain
MacWhirr's voice rang out startlingly.

"What's that? A puff of wind?"--it spoke much louder than Jukes had ever
heard it before--"On the bow. That's right. She may come out of it yet."

The mutter of the winds drew near apace. In the forefront could be
distinguished a drowsy waking plaint passing on, and far off the growth
of a multiple clamour, marching and expanding. There was the throb as
of many drums in it, a vicious rushing note, and like the chant of a
tramping multitude.

Jukes could no longer see his captain distinctly. The darkness was
absolutely piling itself upon the ship. At most he made out movements, a
hint of elbows spread out, of a head thrown up.