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Despair had left him now, and he was quietly cheerful. With

something akin to pleasure that the struggle was over, and that

events were out of his hands for the time being, he settled down

in his chair and picked up a magazine.

He had hardly opened it when a thought occurred to him. If the

course was north a little west, how did it happen that the sun

streamed into his room, which was on the east side of the ship on

that course?

He sprang to the port and looked out.

The sun smote him full in the face. He strained his eyes against

the horizon that was unusually clear for this foggy sea, and

would have sworn that along its edge was a dark line of land. The

conclusion was inevitable.

The Albatross was flying directly south as fast as her whole

spread of canvas could take her.