He could stop the machinery though, or, better still, reverse it, and so give the raft a chance to drift past and again disappear in the mist.

For Sabella's sake he would make the attempt.
He had already started for the lower deck, when his steps were arrested by a second shout from the pilot-house, and another sound that smote on his ear like a death-knell.

It was the hoarse note of a deep-toned whistle apparently at his side.

There was a jangling of bells, a wild yelling, the roar of escaping steam, and then the dim form of a great up-river packet loomed above the little craft on which he stood like some awful fog monster intent upon its destruction.
The man stood at the head of the steps leading down into the living-room, where Sabella, unconscious of the impending peril, was singing a quaint old hymn as she set the table for dinner.

He had heard his mother sing that hymn when he was a boy at home.