observed Mynheer Kloots, wiping his forehead, which was damp
with perspiration, "I _have_ been told of this before, but I have
mocked at the narration." Philip made no reply. Aware of the reality of the vision, and how
deeply it interested him, he felt as if he were a guilty person. The moon had now risen above the clouds, and was pouring her mild pale
light over the slumbering ocean. With a simultaneous impulse, everyone
directed his eyes to the spot where the strange vision had last been
seen; and all was a dead, dead calm. Since the apparition, the pilot, Schriften, had remained on the poop;
he now gradually approached Mynheer Kloots, and looking round, said--

"Mynheer Kloots, as pilot of this vessel, I tell you that you must
prepare for very bad weather." "Bad weather!" said Kloots, rousing himself from a deep reverie. "Yes, bad weather, Mynheer Kloots. There never was a vessel which
fell in with--what we have just seen, but met with disaster soon
afterwards. The very name of Vanderdecken is unlucky--He! he!" Philip would have replied to the sarcasm, but he could not, his tongue
was tied. "What has the name of Vanderdecken to do with it?" observed Kloots. "Have you not heard, then? The captain of that vessel we have just
seen is a Mynheer Vanderdecken--he is the Flying Dutchman!" "How know you that, pilot?" inquired Hillebrant. "I know that, and much more, if I chose to tell," replied Schriften;
"but never mind, I have warned you of bad weather, as is my duty;"
and, with these words, Schriften went down the poop-ladder. "God in heaven! I never was so puzzled and so frightened in my life,"
observed Kloots. "I don't know what to think or say.--What think you,
Philip? was it not supernatural?" "Yes," replied Philip, mournfully. "I have no doubt of it." "I thought the days of miracles had passed," said the captain, "and
that we were now left to our own exertions, and had no other warnings
but those the appearance of the heavens gave us." "And they warn us now," observed Hillebrant. "See how that bank of
clouds has risen within these five minutes--the moon has escaped from
it, but it will soon catch her again--and see, there is a flash of
lightning in the north-west." "Well, my sons, I can brave the elements as well as any man, and do my
best. I have cared little for gales or stress of weather; but I like
not such a warning as we have had to-night. My heart's as heavy as
lead, and that's the truth. Philip, send down for the bottle of
schnapps, if it is only to clear my brain a little." Philip was glad of an opportunity to quit the poop; he wished to have
a few minutes to recover himself and collect his own thoughts. The
appearance of the Phantom Ship had been to him a dreadful shock--not
that he had not fully believed in its existence; but still, to have
beheld, to have been so near that vessel--that vessel in which his
father was fulfilling his awful doom--that vessel on board of which he
felt sure that his own destiny was to be worked out--had given a whirl
to his brain. When he had heard the sound of the boatswain's whistle
on board of her, eagerly had he stretched his hearing to catch the
order given--and given, he was convinced, in his father's voice. Nor
had his eyes been less called to aid in his attempt to discover the
features and dress of those moving on her decks. As soon, then, as he
had sent the boy up to Mynheer Kloots, Philip hastened to his
cabin and buried his face in the coverlet of his bed, and then he
prayed--prayed until he had recovered his usual energy and courage,
and had brought his mind to that state of composure which could enable
him to look forward calmly to danger and difficulty, and feel prepared
to meet it with the heroism of a martyr. Philip remained below not more than half an hour. On his return to the
deck, what a change had taken place! He had left the vessel floating
motionless on the still waters, with her lofty sails hanging down
listlessly from the yards. The moon then soared aloft in her beauty,
reflecting the masts and sails of the ship in extended lines upon the
smooth sea. Now all was dark: the water rippled short and broke in
foam; the smaller and lofty sails had been taken in, and the vessel
was cleaving through the water; and the wind, in fitful gusts and
angry moanings, proclaimed too surely that it had been awakened up to
wrath, and was gathering its strength for destruction. The men
were still busy reducing the sails, but they worked gloomily and
discontentedly. What Schriften, the pilot, had said to them, Philip
knew not, but that they avoided him and appeared to look upon him with
feelings of ill-will, was evident. And each minute the gale increased. "The wind is not steady," observed Hillebrant; "there is no saying
from which quarter the storm may blow: it has already veered round
five points. Philip, I don't much like the appearance of things, and I
may say with the captain that my heart is heavy." "And, indeed, so is mine," replied Philip; "but we are in the hands of
a merciful Providence." "Hard a-port! flatten in forward! brail up the trysail, my men! Be smart!" cried Kloots, as from the wind's chopping round to the
northward and westward, the ship was taken aback, and careened low
before it. The rain now came down in torrents, and it was so dark that
it was with difficulty they could perceive each other on the deck. "We must clew up the topsails, while the men can get upon the yards. See to it forward, Mr Hillebrant." The lightning now darted athwart the firmament, and the thunder
pealed. "Quick! quick, my men, let's furl all!" The sailors shook the water from their streaming clothes, some worked,
others took advantage of the night to hide themselves away, and
commune with their own fears. All canvas was now taken off the ship, except the fore-staysail, and
she flew to the southward with the wind on her quarter. The sea had
now risen, and roared as it curled in foam, the rain fell in torrents,
the night was dark as Erebus, and the wet and frightened sailors
sheltered themselves under the bulwarks. Although many had deserted
from their duty, there was not one who ventured below that night. They
did not collect together as usual--every man preferred solitude and
his own thoughts. The Phantom Ship dwelt on their imaginations, and
oppressed their brains. It was an interminably long and terrible night--they thought the day
would never come. At last the darkness gradually changed to a settled
sullen grey gloom--which was day. They looked at each other, but found
no comfort in meeting each other's eyes. There was no one countenance
in which a beam of hope could be found lurking. They were all
doomed--they remained crouched where they had sheltered themselves
during the night, and said nothing. The sea had now risen mountains high, and more than once had struck
the ship abaft.