At night each man stood in his canoe almost starving and parched with
thirst, with aching back, stooping to dip the water from the canoe and
rising to pour it over the side. For hour after hour, while the calm
moon slowly climbed the sky, each slaved at his dull task. Lulled by
the heave and fall of the long-backed rollers as they slid under the
keels of the canoes, the men nearly dropped asleep where they
stood. The quiet waters crooned to them like a mother singing an old
lullaby--crooned and called, till a voice deep within them said, "It
is better to lie down and sleep and die than to live and fight and
starve."

Then a moan from the sleeping child, or a sight of a streaming ray
of moonlight on the face of its mother would send that nameless Voice
shivering back to its deep hiding-place--and the man would stoop and
bail again.

Each evening as it fell saw their anxious eyes looking west and north
and south for land, and always there was only the weary waste of
waters. And as the sun rose, they hardly dared open their eyes to the
unbroken rim of blue-grey that circled them like a steel prison. They
saw the thin edge of the moon grow to full blaze and then fade to a
corn sickle again as days and nights grew to weeks and a whole month
had passed.

Every morning, as the pearl-grey sea turned to pink and then to
gleaming blue, they knelt on the raft between the canoes and turned
their faces up to their Father in prayer, and never did the sun sink
behind the rim of waters without the sound of their voices rising into
the limitless sky with thanks for safe-keeping.