LXXII.

The seventh day, and no wind--the burning sun Blistered and scorched, and, stagnant on the sea, They lay like carcasses; and hope was none, Save in the breeze that came not: savagely They glared upon each other--all was done, Water, and wine, and food,--and you might see The longings of the cannibal arise (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes.