"There is no wind."

The wind, indeed, had left them, the storm had fled; and its departure,
which they had believed to mean safety, meant, in fact, destruction. Had
the sou'-wester continued it might have driven them wildly on some
shore--might have beaten the leak in speed--might, perhaps, have carried
them to some propitious sandbank, and cast them on it before the hooker
foundered. The swiftness of the storm, bearing them away, might have
enabled them to reach land; but no more wind, no more hope. They were
going to die because the hurricane was over.

The end was near!

Wind, hail, the hurricane, the whirlwind--these are wild combatants that
may be overcome; the storm can be taken in the weak point of its armour;
there are resources against the violence which continually lays itself
open, is off its guard, and often hits wide. But nothing is to be done
against a calm; it offers nothing to the grasp of which you can lay
hold.

The winds are a charge of Cossacks: stand your ground and they disperse.
Calms are the pincers of the executioner.

The water, deliberate and sure, irrepressible and heavy, rose in the
hold, and as it rose the vessel sank--it was happening slowly.

Those on board the wreck of the _Matutina_ felt that most hopeless of
catastrophes--an inert catastrophe undermining them. The still and
sinister certainty of their fate petrified them. No stir in the air, no
movement on the sea. The motionless is the inexorable. Absorption was