It had now become perceptible to even the inexperienced eyes of the
passengers that the Excelsior was obeying some new and profound impulse.
The vague drifting had ceased, and in its place had come a mysterious
but regular movement, in which the surrounding mist seemed to
participate, until fog and vessel moved together towards some unseen but
well-defined bourne. In vain had the boats of the Excelsior, manned
by her crew, endeavored with a towing-line to check or direct the
inexplicable movement; in vain had Captain Bunker struggled, with all
the skilled weapons of seamanship, against his invincible foe; wrapped
in the impenetrable fog, the ship moved ghost-like to what seemed to be
her doom.

The anxiety of the officers had not as yet communicated itself to the
passengers; those who had been most nervous in the ordinary onset of
wind and wave looked upon the fog as a phenomenon whose only disturbance
might be delay. To Miss Keene this conveyed no annoyance; rather that
placid envelopment of cloud soothed her fancy; she submitted herself to
its soft embraces, and to the mysterious onward movement of the ship,
as if it were part of a youthful dream. Once she thought of the ship
of Sindbad, and that fatal loadstone mountain, with an awe that was,
however, half a pleasure.

"You are not frightened, Miss Keene?" said a voice near her.

She started slightly. It was the voice of Mr. Hurlstone. So thick was
the fog that his face and figure appeared to come dimly out of it, like
a part of her dreaming fancy. Without replying to his question, she said
quickly,--

"You are better then, Mr. Hurlstone? We--we were all so frightened for