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I awoke in panic and, leaping up groped in the pitch-dark until ers closed on the haft of the sheath-knife underI knew not what; for all aboutdrawn out in shuddering coreat content, and thrusting away the knife I took flint and steel and therewith lighted ht but the creak and groan of the stout ship, the voice of her travail as she rose to the seas And as I hearkened, every individual timber seemed to find a voice, and ith this and the uneasy pitching and rolling of the ship I judged ell under weigh and beyond the river-e we had sustained fro, insomuch that I reached for ht know our whereabouts and if it were day or night, since here in the bowels of the ship it was always night So (as I say) I reached for the lanthorn, then paused as above all other sounds rose a cheery hail, and under the door was the flicker of a light Hereupon I opened the door (though with strangely aard fingers) and thus espied Godby lurching towardsbesidedown the food and drink he had brought, "are ye waking at last?"

"Have I slept long, Godby?"

"You've slept, Mart'n, a full thirty hours"

"Thirty hours, Godby?"

"Splitfor the flask he had brought, for I felt mythirst, my head throbbed miserably

"Well, here we be, pal, clear o' the river this twelve hours and more And, Mart'n, this is a ship--aye, by hokey, a sailer! So true on a wind, so sweet to her helm, and Master Adam's worthy of her, blister me else!"

"'Tis strange I should sleep so long!" says I, claspinghead

"Why, you'ht better to do here i' the dark," says he, setting out the viands before me "What, no appetite, Mart'n?" I shook my head "Lord love ye, 'tis the dark and the curst reek o' this place, pal--come aloft, all's bows yet, nor like to while this wind holds, Mart'n--so come aloft wi' Godby"