I had not realized until
the sunlight came how small our boat really was. There was some
influence in the light and warmth, some hint of happier days, that made
us revive memories of other voyages, when we had stout decks beneath
our feet, unlimited food at our command, and pleasant cabins for our
ease. Now we clung to a battered little boat, "alone, alone--all, all
alone; alone on a wide, wide sea." So low in the water were we that
each succeeding swell cut off our view of the sky-line. We were a tiny
speck in the vast vista of the sea--the ocean that is open to all and
merciful to none, that threatens even when it seems to yield, and that
is pitiless always to weakness. For a moment the consciousness of the
forces arrayed against us would be almost overwhelming. Then hope and
confidence would rise again as our boat rose to a wave and tossed aside
the crest in a sparkling shower like the play of prismatic colours at
the foot of a waterfall. My double-barrelled gun and some cartridges
had been stowed aboard the boat as an emergency precaution against a
shortage of food, but we were not disposed to destroy our little
neighbours, the Cape pigeons, even for the sake of fresh meat. We
might have shot an albatross, but the wandering king of the ocean
aroused in us something of the feeling that inspired, too late, the
Ancient Mariner.
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