Still the wind drove us, still we hardly shifted canvas, still the sky spread clear, of a vast blue depth, and the blue glass plain of the sea lay beneath.

It was too smooth, the wind in our rigging too changeless of tune.

At last, all would have had variety spring.

There began a veritable hunger for some change, and it was possible to feel a faint horror.

_What if this is the horror--to go on forever and ever like this_?
Then one morning when the sun rose, it lit a novel thing.