They still ran at full speed through this warmer expanse, stained like red marble, with their boiling wake like blood.

Sylvestre remained all the time up in his top, where he would hum his old song of "Jean-Francois de Nantes," to remind him of his dear brother Yann, of Iceland, and the good old bygone days.
Sometimes, in the depths of the shadowy distance, some wonderfully tinted mountain would arise.

Notwithstanding the distance and the dimness around, the names of those projected capes of countries appeared as the eternal landmarks on the great roadways of the earth to the steersmen of this vessel; but a topman is carried on like an inanimate thing, knowing nothing, and unconscious of the distance over the everlasting, endless waves.
All he felt was a terrible estrangement from the things of this world, which grew greater and greater; and the feeling was very defined and exact as he looked upon the seething foam behind, and tried to remember how long had lasted this pace that never slackened night or day.

Down on deck, the crowd of men, huddled together in the shadow of the awnings, panted with weariness.

The water and the air, even the very light above, had a dull, crushing splendour; and the fadeless glory of those elements were as a very mockery of the human beings whose physical lives are so ephemeral.
Once, up in his crow's nest, he was gladdened by the sight of flocks of tiny birds, of an unknown species, which fell upon the ship like a whirlwind of coal dust.