The sun passed its zenith, and lingered down the stainless floor of heaven. Lying in the boat, my face turned up to the sky, I thought I saw on its blue white, marbled streaks, so slight, so immaterial, that now I said⁠—“They are there”⁠—and now, “It is a mere imagination.” A sudden fear stung me while I gazed; and, starting up, and running to the prow⁠—as I stood, my hair was gently lifted on my brow⁠—a dark line of ripples appeared to the east, gaining rapidly on us⁠—my breathless remark to Adrian, was followed by the flapping of the canvas, as the adverse wind struck it, and our boat lurched⁠—swift as speech, the web of the storm thickened overhead, the sun went down red, the dark sea was strewed with foam, and our skiff rose and fell in its increasing furrows.