Wednesday the Tenth by Grant Allen

It was Thursday the eleventh, in the small hours of the morning. The _Albatross_ was lumbering along as best she might with her broken engine, and we were nearing the line of 180 deg. We weren't making much way, however, for the speed was low; and we hadn't so much reason for hurrying now, for we felt almost hopeless of being in time to prevent the threatened massacre. Our people, we feared, had long since fallen victims to the superstition and bloodthirstiness of the ungrateful savages.

I was asleep in my berth after the fatigues of the day, and was dreaming of my dear little girl in England; when suddenly I felt a clammy cold hand laid upon my own outside the coverlet, and waking with a start, I saw Martin Luther standing pale and white in his blue shirt and trousers before me. I knew at once by his face something fresh had turned up.