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Updated: July 7, 2025
It is said in Bruges that the ghost of a Spanish soldier, condemned to expiate eternally a foul crime done at the bidding of the Holy Office, walks at midnight on the Quai Vert, like Hamlet's father on the terrace at Elsinore; and superstitious people might well fancy that a spectre appears in the market-place of Furnes on the summer's night when the town is preparing for the annual ceremony.
In the morning the Commodore's Captain came and told me that he had been on board my ship for the man, but that the Officer had refused to give him up, alledging that he was an Englishman, and that he, the Captain, was just then come from the General to demand the man of me as a Deanish Subject, he standing upon their Ship's books as born at Elsinore.
He will pause abruptly, in the midst of his interminable pacing, in order to watch her in her maddest antics. The sight is very pleasant to him, for his eyes glisten and a faint glow seems to irradiate his face and impart to it a hint of ecstasy. The Elsinore has a snug place in his heart, I am confident.
They are strongly interested in the coming performance, for “Hamlet the Dane” has taken deep hold upon the Danish affections; and in Elsinore, so great is the consideration entertained for this all but fabulous prince, that they will point you out the garden wherein his royal father suffered murder —most foul, strange, and unnatural, and the grave where the “gentle prince” himself lies buried.
Once in Valparaiso, I contended, we would fit out the Elsinore with fresh crew and officers and send her on her way. As for us, steamers and rapid travelling would fetch us quickly home. Furthermore, Valparaiso being a place where such things as licences and ministers obtained, we would be married ere we caught the fast steamers for home. But Margaret was obdurate.
How misty and remote seemed everything connected with the old life at Elsinore! His father's death, his mother's marriage, his anguish and isolation they were like things that had befallen somebody else. There was something incredible, too, in his present situation. Was he dreaming? Was he really in Italy, and in love?
That evening the three men of us had dinner alone, with racks on the table, while the Elsinore rolled in the calm that had sent Miss West to her room. "You won't see her for a couple of days," Captain West told me. "Her mother was the same way a born sailor, but always sick at the outset of a voyage." "It's the shaking down." Mr.
More than that, as the gale eased on the morning of the third day, they actually went aloft, set top-gallant-sails, royals, and skysails, and trimmed the yards to the quartering breeze. This was too much for the Saxon streak in me, whereupon I wore the Elsinore about before the wind, fetched her up upon it, and lashed the wheel.
With a weak crew, in the big, tail- end sea of a broken gale, breakers and destruction under her lee, the Elsinore was being worn around. We had been under lower-topsails and a reefed foresail all night. Mr. Pike's first action, after putting the wheel up, had been to square the mizzen-yards.
Pike's Nancy. Nobody showed sympathy for the unfortunate Greek. He was bundled out upon Number Two hatch like so much carrion and left there unattended, to recover consciousness as he might elect. Yes, and so inured have I become that I make free to admit I felt no sympathy for him myself. My eyes were still filled with the beauty of the Elsinore. One does grow hard at sea.
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