Passing the Start-Point at last, the cock’s-comb of hilltops to starboard, the Ship leaning in the up-Channel wind, the late sun upon the heights,— more brilliant gold and blue than either Landsman has ever seen,— the Cold of approaching Night carrying an edge, the possibility that by Morning the Weather will be quite brisk indeed . . . “Su-ma-tra,” sing the sailors of the Seahorse,
