What little breeze remained in the clouds was noiseless. The snow fell
thickly, softly, with scarce a slant. No foam of breakers could be
heard. The peace of shadows was over all.

This repose succeeding all the past exasperations and paroxysms was, for
the poor creatures so long tossed about, an unspeakable comfort. It was
as though the punishment of the rack had ceased. They caught a glimpse
about them and above them of something which seemed like a consent, that
they should be saved. They regained confidence. All that had been fury
was now tranquillity. It appeared to them a pledge of peace. Their
wretched hearts dilated. They were able to let go the end of rope or
beam to which they had clung, to rise, hold themselves up, stand, walk,
move about. They felt inexpressibly calmed. There are in the depths of
darkness such phases of paradise, preparations for other things. It was
clear that they were delivered out of the storm, out of the foam, out of
the wind, out of the uproar. Henceforth all the chances were in their
favour. In three or four hours it would be sunrise. They would be seen
by some passing ship; they would be rescued. The worst was over; they
were re-entering life. The important feat was to have been able to keep
afloat until the cessation of the tempest. They said to themselves, "It
is all over this time."

Suddenly they found that all was indeed over.

One of the sailors, the northern Basque, Galdeazun by name, went down
into the hold to look for a rope, then came above again and said,--

"The hold is full."

"Of what?" asked the chief.