So hour after hour passed, through which, between vain attempts to sleep, I managed to wade through many pages of Rosny's _Le Termite_--a not very cheerful proceeding, I must say, concerned as it is with the microscopic and over-elaborate recital of Noel Servaise's tortured nerves, bodily pains, and intellectual phantasma.

At last I tossed the novel aside, damned all analytical Frenchmen, and found some measure of relief in the more genial and cynical Stendhal.
Over my head I could hear Mr.Mellaire steadily pace up and down.

At four the watches changed, and I recognized the age-lag in Mr.Pike's promenade.

Half an hour later, just as the steward's alarm went off, instantly checked by that light-sleeping Asiatic, the _Elsinore_ began to heel over on my side.

I could hear Mr.Pike barking and snarling orders, and at times a trample and shuffle of many feet passed over my head as the weird crew pulled and hauled.