TWENTY-SIXWHEN the Lord Clive had steamed or sailed or both, depending on the weather, out of sight of land, I lost sight of my landmarks behind me and before. I had no sense of forward movement; the sea was all around me when I went to sleep and when I wakened; it changed with every least change of light and wind, but we remained a rocking, rolling island, moored amid its storms, calms, currents, and rolling waves. The clock of my heart kept ticking, but I did not look or listen. In this curious backwater in the stream of my life, I had one pleasant interest.
It was in a sailor to whom I had spoken when he was securing the captain’s gig on the small passengers’ deck abaft the wheelhouse. I was so glad to be taken with his appearance—fitting my notion of a young Viking. Not very tall, but
