When, with the assistance of the steward, Ishmael had made his old
retainer comfortable, he placed himself with his shoulders against
the back of the wheel-house to steady himself, for the ship was
rolling terribly, and he stood gazing forth upon the stormy surface
of the sea.

A magnificent scene! The whole ocean, from the central speck on
which he stood to the vast, vanishing circle of the horizon, seemed
one boundless, boiling caldron. Millions of waves were simultaneously
leaping in thunder from the abyss and rearing themselves into blue
mountain peaks, capped with white foam, and sparkling in the sunlight
for a moment, to be swallowed up in the darkness of the roaring deep
the next. A lashing, tossing, heaving, foaming, glancing rise and fall
of liquid mountains and valleys, awful, but ravishing, to look on.

Ishmael stood leaning against the wheel-house, with his arms folded
and his eyes gazing out at sea. His whole soul was exalted to
reverence and worship, and he murmured within himself:

"It is the Lord that commandeth the waters; it is the glorious God
that maketh the thunder!

"It is the Lord that ruleth the sea; the voice of the Lord is mighty
in operation; the voice of the Lord is a glorious voice!"

As for the professor, he lay propped up at his master's feet, and
looking forth upon the mighty war of wind and wave. The sight had
subdued him. He was content only to exist and enjoy.