“Who knows,” thought Frederick, “while they are ringing the bells down here, perhaps the life-belts are being handed out on deck, the boats are being swung out on the water and over-loaded with passengers to the sinking point.”

XLI

But, thank the Lord, by the time he had finally fought his way to Ingigerd’s cabin on deck, it had not yet reached that point.  It was to Ingigerd Hahlstroem that an impulse had been driving him.  Beside the children, for whom in a motherly way she was trying constantly to devise a new occupation, he found her father and Doctor Wilhelm.

“People’s cowardice is something fearful,” said Doctor Wilhelm.

“Easily said; but what’s the matter?” asked Frederick.

“One of the bearings got too hot.  It takes time for it to cool off.”

The passengers crowded on the companionway kept calling for the captain.

“The captain has other things to do than answer silly questions,” said Wilhelm.

“I think the people should be quieted and given an explanation,” Frederick declared.  “To me a certain amount of fear seems justifiable in the landlubber, who doesn’t know anything of nautical matters and hasn’t the least notion of what is happening.”

“Why should they be told anything?” rejoined Wilhelm.  “Even if matters are very bad, it is advisable to deceive them.”

“Well, then,” said Hahlstroem, “deceive them.  Send stewards around to tell them everything is all right and we’ll have to drown.”

Shortly afterward, the captain actually did send the little army of stewards through the vessel to inform the passengers that, as Doctor Wilhelm had said, one of the bearings had got too hot, and in a short while the engines would be working again.

“Is there danger?” the stewards were asked a thousand times.

“No,” was the decided answer.

To keep the air in her cabin pure, Ingigerd left the door slightly ajar; and the sight of the colossal Roland, as seen from her cabin, helplessly drifting in the ocean, by no means seemed to bear out the stewards’ declaration.

“There is no use concealing the fact that we are scudding under bare poles,” said Hahlstroem.

“We are dripping oil on the water,” said Wilhelm, pointing through the opening of the door to where Pander and a sailor were lowering a bag of sail-cloth filled with oil.  With the heavy seas that kept sweeping down like great mountains in motion and the fearfully boiling waves accompanying the swells, the measure seemed almost ridiculous.  Each instant the dead Roland, constantly sending out its long-drawn signal, which sounded more like a call for help than a warning, was raised up on a plunging mountain of water, where there seemed as little prospect of safety as when it sank into the valleys.  The great steamer seemed not to know where to turn.  The raging waters twisted it over now on its starboard side, now on its port side.  Of its herculean might, nothing remained but its unwieldy, helpless bulk.  It turned about slowly, and turned back again, and all of a sudden a fearful sea, like a thousand hissing white panthers leaping from a dark green mountain ridge, dashed over the railing.