Every sailor swore he saw it once, but not
a second time.
This midnight-spout had almost grown a forgotten thing, when,
some days after, lo! at the same silent hour, it was again announced:
again it was descried by all; but upon making sail to overtake it,
once more it disappeared as if it had never been. And so it served
us night after night, till no one heeded it but to wonder at it.
Mysteriously jetted into the clear moonlight, or starlight,
as the case might be; disappearing again for one whole day,
or two days, or three; and somehow seeming at every distinct
repetition to be advancing still further and further in our van,
this solitary jet seemed for ever alluring us on.
Nor with the immemorial superstition of their race,
and in accordance with the preternaturalness, as it seemed,
which in many things invested the Pequod, were there wanting
some of the seamen who swore that whenever and wherever descried;
at however remote times, or in however far apart latitudes
and longitudes, that unnearable spout was cast by one selfsame whale;
and that whale, Moby Dick. For a time, there reigned, too, a sense
of peculiar dread at this flitting apparition, as if it were
treacherously beckoning us on and on, in order that the monster
might turn round upon us, and rend us at last in the remotest
and most savage seas.
Pages:
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387