THE ALBATROSS. 215 



down upon us from the north' arc! . The wind had 

 died out to a flat calm. There was not a ripple 

 of white water under the ship's fore-foot. There 

 was not a streak of foam nor so much as a bubble 

 in her wake. It was an Irishman's tempest, 

 straight up and down ! The air was hazy, sultry, 

 and almost unbearably hot. There could then be 

 but one meaning in the powerful swell that 

 bore down upon the Thomas Pope. To the 

 northward, just beyond that peaceful horizon, 

 a hurricane was raging. The roller had been 

 sent out by it. 



A ripple rushes out from a stone dropped in a 

 mill-pond. That roller was the ripple magnified 

 to sublime proportions. 



Another roller — another ! Then, quicker than 

 the first three, still another ! And as yet no 

 faintest flaw of wind ! 



We were trapped. The albatross would be 

 avenged, and Russell vindicated. 



We were then about in the middle of Mozam- 

 bique Channel. Madagascar was some three 

 hundred miles to the eastward, and the coast 

 of Africa about the same distance off in the 

 opposite direction. 



For a day and a night the flat calm continued. 

 Then a light breeze sprang up from the sou' east. 



