Faces were shrouded by night and the fog, but some gasped and others mumbled prayers.

One of the wounded soldiers shouted in delirium, and a coat was thrust over his head with brutal force.

The fog-horn blared again, two cables' lengths distant.
They were saved, for the moment! In a little while, perhaps twenty minutes, they heard another siren.
It sounded a different note, a quaintly harsh blend of discords.
Whatsoever ship this might be, it was not the _Sao Geronimo_.

And in that thrilling instant there was a coldness on one side of their faces that was not on the other.

Moist skin is a weather-vane in its way.