midnight
Stricken down while gallantly battling with the blast ; her storm-sails set ; helm manned ; and every sailor at his post ; as sunk the Hornet , her men at quarters , in some distant gale . But surmises are idle . A very old craft , she may have foundered ; or laid her bones upon some treacherous reef ; but as with many a far rover , her fate is a mystery . Pray Heaven , the spirit of that lost vessel roaming abroad through the troubled mists of midnight gales -- as old mariners believe of missing ships -- may never haunt my future path upon the waves . Peacefully may she rest at the bottom of the sea ; and sweetly sleep my shipmates in the lowest watery zone , where prowling sharks come not , nor billows roll . By quitting the Arcturion when we did , Jarl and I unconsciously eluded a sailor 's grave . We hear of providential deliverances .