“Hark! he is whistling in the rigging; he is swinging on the snapping three ends of yonder loosened halliards if they strike you you are dead, for they are Whips, and Death is grapping them! He is calling you, Tom Clark; don’t you hear him? Balling from his throne, and his “throne is the Tempest, Tom Clark—the Tempest. Now he is watching you—don’t his glance trouble you?’ Don’t you know that he is gazing down into your eyes? How cold is his glance! how colder his breath! It is very, very cold. Ah! I shiver as I think—and Death is freezing you, Tom Clark; he is freezing your very heart, and turning your blood to ice. He is freezing you, an has tried to freeze me, in various ways. But I bade him stand back—to stay his breath—for, unlike you, Tom Clark, I am a Brother of the Rosie Cross, and I have been over Egypt, and Syria, and Turkey; on the borders of the Caspian, and Arabia’s shores; over sterile steppes, and weltered through the Deserts— and all in search of the loftier knowledge of the Soul, that can only there be found; and I found what I sought.