The cabin lamp--taking long swings this way and that--
was burning fitfully, and casting fitful shadows upon the old
man's bolted door,--a thin one, with fixed blinds inserted,
in place of upper panels. The isolated subterraneousness
of the cabin made a certain humming silence to reign there,
though it was hooped round by all the roar of the elements.
The loaded muskets in the rack were shiningly revealed,
as they stood upright against the forward bulkhead.
Starbuck was an honest, upright man; but out of Starbuck's heart,
at that instant when he saw the muskets, there strangely
evolved an evil thought; but so blent with its neutral or good
accompaniments that for the instant he hardly knew it for itself.
"He would have shot me once," he murmured, "yes, there's the very
musket that he pointed at me;--that one with the studded stock;
let me touch it--lift it. Strange, that I, who have
handled so many deadly lances, strange, that I should shake
so now. Loaded? I must see. Aye, aye; and powder in the pan;--
that's not good. Best spill it?--wait. I'll cure myself of this.
I'll hold the musket boldly while I think.--I come to report
a fair wind to him. But how fair? Fair for death and doom,--
that's fair for Moby Dick.
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