Before Rowland could reply a shout from the crow’s-nest split the air.
“Ice,” yelled the lookout; “ice ahead. Iceberg. Right under the bows.” The first officer ran
amidships, and the captain, who had remained there, sprang to the engine-room telegraph, and
this time the lever was turned. But in five seconds the bow of the Titan began to lift, and ahead,
and on either hand, could be seen, through the fog, a field of ice, which arose in an incline to a
hundred feet high in her track. The music in the theater ceased, and among the babel of shouts
and cries, and the deafening noise of steel, scraping and crashing over ice, Rowland heard the
agonized voice of a woman crying from the bridge steps: “Myra—Myra, where are you? Come
back.”