As soon as breakfast was despatched by lamplight, a start was made to see if the bear was anywhere near; and as the canvas door was opened with some difficulty, they stepped out into the semi-darkness to make for the other side of the vessel, about a hundred yards from which a hummock could be seen lying through the rising mist; and upon their approaching it the footsteps of the bear could be plainly traced in company with spots of blood, showing that the animal must have been seriously wounded.

"He staggered and went down here," said Johannes, pointing to unmistakable marks; and then, as the back of the animal stood up white as the snow around, Johannes began to trot forward.

"Don't do that!" cried Steve excitedly. "Let them go first with the guns."

"No fear, sir; he's frozen stiff."

So it proved, but a horrifying sight presented itself; for there were footprints about, which the Norseman pointed out as belonging to three more bears, a large and two small ones, which had been devouring the one that had been shot, and now lay, partially eaten, in the snow.

"Ugh! the cannibals!" exclaimed Steve, turning away in disgust.

"Will they come back to the feast?" said the doctor. "They may, sir; but I think not. They have gorged themselves, and will have gone back to the cave they occupy, perhaps to go to sleep for a couple of months. I think they lie up during the very coldest weather, and I should say it was cold enough for that. Besides, this carcass is a mass of ice now.— It is very cold."

"Yes, and dark enough for anything." But as the days—they could hardly be called days—glided by the last gleams of a dim twilight died out, till in the clearest times there was nothing but a faint dawn to be seen at twelve o'clock, where they had seen the rim of the sun for the last time, and the cold was intense, beyond anything they could have imagined. When the men were crowded together in the forecastle their breath rose in a thick mist, and Watty murmured bitterly to Steve about it, for he said it was a shame that the deck was not freshly cleaned.

"A' through snaw-storm last neet," he said, "the snaw came tumm'ling doon upo' our bets till she was a' wet."

"But there was no snowstorm last night, Watty."

"Why, she saw it wi' her ain een."

"It was only the frozen breath," said Steve, as he recalled his experience on the deck the night the bear was shot.

"Ah, weel, she dinna ken. Maybe she's richt; but the cauld is chust awfu'. Tid she ken the McByle burnt her foots last nicht?"

"What, Andra? No."

"Oh ay, she tid. She was sitting by the fire trying to blaw the ice oot o' the pipes, for she couldna ket the pipes to skirl. She was sitting leuking on, when she smelt something oot. Chacobsen she says, 'She'll hae to mind, Andra, for she's purning her foots'; and Andra she says tat Chacobsen should keep her chokes to hersel when she's pusy wi' the pipes; and chust then Chohannes lays holt upo' her py the shouthers an' pu's her ower, and shows her the toes wass purning, and she tidn't know."

"Is this true, Watty?"

"She can chust co and leuk the chief's foots an' see. Why, the tins o' meat all coom oot lumps o' ice, and the soup freezes in the galley where the fire's purning. She niver knew it could pe sae caud, or she'd ha' stoppit at hame."

Watty was quite right, for the cold struck in everywhere; and if it had not been for the great fire kept going in the engine furnace, the ship would have been unbearable. For the cold produced so utter an insensibility in the extremities that the doctor had to keep a very watchful eye over the men, several of whom were slightly frost-bitten.

But he was well backed up by the four Norwegians, who had learned in their own severe winters something of the power of the frost; and hence it was that, when the darkness set in entirely for their four months' night, all were still in excellent health.

"Help me, Steve, in every way you can, my lad. Let's keep the men's spirits up till the twenty-first of December."

"You mean till the end of March," said Steve gloomily.

"No, my lad; as I said, till the twenty-first of December. Only get that day past, and I can say to the men, 'the sun is on its way back; patience, and we shall once more have the light.'"

"What shall I do to help you?"

"First of all, cast off that despondent way, my lad, and set others an example. You, I, and Mr Handscombe can't afford to be low-spirited. There: be yourself, cheery and bright. I'm ready to encourage you in starting games or sports. Anything to keep the men in a cheerful state."

Steve tried, but in spite of moon and star-shine, more brilliant than any present had ever seen before, abundant food, long walks for exercise whenever the weather would permit, and, above all, encouragement to sleep as long as they felt disposed, there was a peculiar depression steadily creeping over the men with which it grew harder and harder to battle.

At first they were merry and cheery enough in the glow of the fire, they sang all the songs they knew, and joined in chorus; the fiddle was heard going, and often enough the tune kept time with the beating of feet, as the men tried the steps of some hornpipes. And on other nights Andrew's pipes made most dismal sounds, to the great delight of the Scots; but after the mishap to one of his feet, a burn which refused to heal, "ta pipes" found no more favour in the Highlander's eyes, and he grew low-spirited and irritable to a degree that made him snatch the pipes one day from Watty, who had taken them down "to hae a blaw," as he called it, and strike him across the head with the big drone.

Johannes was taken into consultation in the cabin, where they were in pretty good spirits, Steve being occupied in helping the doctor and captain in keeping the log, and noting down the observations they made with the instruments and on the weather; but the Norseman shook his head.

"I'm trying all I know, sir," he said; "but it's a hard task. I'm only an unlearned man, and do not understand these things well; but it seems to me, sir, that nothing was ever meant to live up here in the coldest time. The birds have gone south, we have not seen the track of deer or wolf for a month, and it is six weeks now since we have seen the footprint of a bear. It is nature's long, dark, cold night, sir, where nothing is meant to live."

"Humph!" said the captain shortly; "and so you are going to give in too, and turn coward, eh?"

"No, sir," said the Norseman firmly; "and you know that I do not deserve those words. Jakobsen and our two Nordoe brothers have done all they can to keep up the men's spirits, and we shall do this, whether we live or die, to the end."

"Of course you will, Johannes," said Steve warmly, as he was aware of a peculiar sensation in his eyes; and then felt brighter than he had for days, for the captain made a quick movement and snatched off the thick fur glove he was obliged to wear in the heated cabin, even while he wrote, for the ink still froze at a short distance from the fire.

Captain Marsham's movement was to hold out his hand to the Norseman, and have it seized in a grip of iron.

"I beg your pardon, Johannes," he said. "My words were unjust."

"Say no more, sir," said the man, smiling. "You are the captain, and have a right to speak words to bring your men up to their work."

"But they are not needed with you, my lad," said the captain warmly. "But the others, what can we do to stir them out of this depressed state?"

"Work them, sir. We want some great thing to draw them out of thinking about themselves. Walks and ordinary work depress them. We want some great call made upon them for their help."

"Yes; and how can that call be made?"

Johannes shook his head. The suggestion was excellent, but it seemed to be impossible to carry out; for it was madness to attempt toilsome expeditions over the ice when at any hour they were liable to be overtaken by one of the terrible, blinding snowstorms of which they had had several examples since the darkness had set in; so after much consideration Captain Marsham came to the conclusion that it was hard enough work to preserve existence with the ship as a place of refuge, always within touch, without running risks which might prove fatal to the whole party.

"You are quite right," said the doctor, who had remained silent. "I do not doubt our power to make long expeditions, but they would always be terribly risky; and unless there was some object in view that warranted the work, I should not venture."

"You mean that?" said the captain.

"I do. If a man gets frost-bitten anywhere within range, we can bring him back, and soon take proper steps to save the injured limb or part. On the other hand, suppose we are overtaken by a storm and darkness, and forced to shelter somewhere under the lee of the rocks or ice, how many of us would be able to reach the ship after the storm was over? No; I see nothing for us to do but take what exercise we can in the moonlight, and then come back to our quarters, which we must make as snug as we can."

"And be thankful that we have such quarters," said the captain. "What do you say, Steve?"

The lad started at this first appeal, but spoke out.

"I should like to try and search again for the crew of the Ice Blink, sir," he said.

"What could we do better than we have done, my boy? We could not reach the parts that we journeyed over in the summer, that is certain, and to do any good we ought to go farther. No, my lad, we must wait."



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

A BRAVE FIGHT.

Darkness profound at times, and often with it a silence so strange and weird that Steve found himself speaking in a whisper. He was not alone in this, for he found the crew often answered him in a low voice, as if afraid of being heard. For, in spite of all that could be done to cheer them up, the poor fellows were growing very despondent, and even when the shortest day arrived they did not rouse up as the captain had hoped would be the case.

Time had been gliding on so monotonously of late, with nothing to look for but the changes in the moon, that it took Steve quite by surprise when at breakfast the captain cried cheerily:

"The shortest day, my boy! Well, why don't you look pleased? What are you thinking about?"

"I was thinking," said Steve as he started out of a reverie, "that it would be the longest night."

"Well, take it that way, then: the longest night, and the shortest day. To-morrow the sun will have started on the backward journey, so come, cheer up, and—"

They all sprang to their feet, for a terrific report somewhere on high was followed by a crashing roar as of thunder, and with one consent they hurried on deck and out into the snow.

All was silent by then, but a few moments later there was a rushing and crashing sound, evidently on the steep mountain-side, in the direction of the chasm through which they had been in the habit of making their way to the open sea.

"An avalanche of ice and rocks," said the captain.

"Yes, sir," said Johannes, as the rushing sound stopped. "The frost must have rent open some big rock, and this started the others in falling."

Here was something to do.

"A good beginning, though a few hours too soon, my lads. We've reached the shortest day, and it's time to be active once more. Quick! wrap up; coats on, and mitts. We'll go and see what the ice avalanche has done."

The men returned to their quarters, but it was in a dull, spiritless way, which Steve could not help noticing, but he said nothing then.

"Take guns, sir?" he asked, as they reached the cabin.

"We may as well, my lad, though I don't think there will be anything to shoot."

Steve was ready first, and went out on deck, to see the men coming up from the forecastle, looking big and uncouth in their hooded fur coats and mittens; but no one spoke as they stood there in the gloom waiting for orders. Steve peered about, but could not see the face he sought, and he turned to Hamish, who was close at hand.

"Where's Watty?" he said.

"In her bunk, sir," said the man surlily.

"In his bunk? Why didn't you rouse him up? It will do him good to come. Andra isn't here, either. He ought to try and walk as far as we're going to-day."

"Na, let them be, sir," said the man. "Better let the puir chiels dee in peace."

"For shame!" cried Steve hotly; "what do you mean by talking about dying in peace?"

"Only that she may as weel lee doon and ket it ower, sir. She'll neffer see Scotia acain."

"Hamish, I should be ashamed to say that if I were a big, strong fellow like you. What are you thinking about?"

"She thinks it wass a shame to pring us all oop here to dee."

There was a low murmur of acquiescence here among the men, and Steve felt a shiver run through him, as if the men's dread and despondency were contagious. But he brightened up the next minute, and said lightly:

"This doesn't sound very brave;" and he pushed by the men and descended to the forecastle, where Andrew lay staring at the dim light swinging from one of the beams.

"Hullo, Andra!" he cried cheerily, though he knew the jubilant sound of his voice was forced; "lying down? How are the pipes?"

"The pipes are froze hard, Meester Stevey, an' she'll hae them put wi' her in the hole in the snow."

"What, to thaw them?" cried Steve. "Nonsense! you're not so bad as that. Where's Watty?"

"Oh!" came from right forward out of the darkness.

"What a groan!" cried Steve boisterously. "Here, come out, you lazy old rascal; we're just going on a bit of a trip. Where are you? Oh, I say, you do like playing dormouse."

"Oh, dinna tooch her, sir; she's froze all through, and she'll preak."

"Nonsense! Let's have a look at you, Watty!" cried Steve jovially, though his heart ached as he spoke and thought of how the doctor had said that unless the men's spirits were kept up they would droop and die.

As he spoke he half dragged the lad, blankets, and all into the light.

"Why, you're not half frozen yet."

"Hey, put she dinna ken. She's a' ane muckle chilplain."

"Then come out, and have a run through the snow."

"Nay, she'll never rin acain."

"Yes, you will. I want you, Watty. Come along."

"Nay, she dinna like her, an' she never tid. She's ferry pad."

"Did the doctor say so?"

"No," growled Andrew; "she said it wass nothing the matter with the callant, and she ought to ket oop and rin apoot."

"Eh?" cried Watty, rising up so quickly that he knocked his head against the bottom of the next bunk. "The doctor said Andra wass petter as I am, Meester Stevey, an' she should pe apoot her wairk. She's ferry well inteet."

"A lee!" cried Andrew fiercely. "The doctor dinna ken how sair she be. She's ferry pad, and she's coing to dee."

"So we all are, some day, Andra. Come, man, get up, and you, too, Watty."

"Na, na—na, na," came with quite a duet of groans. "Oh, I say!" cried Steve. "I know I feel quite as bad and low-spirited as you both do. Come, Watty laddie, it's horribly dull without you. Get up."

"She dinna want her, sir, she dinna want her."

"But I do, Watty, 'pon my word. You and I are the only two boys in the ship, and I miss you. Get up, and you and I'll stick together all day, and have a good run with Skeny."

"Do she mean she to want her ferry padly?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then she'll ket oop," said the lad with a groan.

"And you, too, Andra. Get up, and come with us; it will do you good."

"Neffer no more, neffer no more," groaned the man.

"Nonsense! It's too bad of you!" cried Steve. "The ship's as dull as dull now, and you might make it so different."

Andrew groaned, but he pulled the blanket away from his left ear, and Steve noticed it as he went on.

"One never hears you making a joke about Hamish."

"Ah, she tid mak' chokes apoot Hahmeesh."

"And just when we want the place to be made cheerful with a bit of music, you go and put away the pipes and pretend they're frozen."

Andrew groaned again, but it was a much shorter groan.

"When it was light we could hear the pipes going. Ha! what were those tunes you played—Strathclydes?"

"Na, na, Strathspeys, laddie; but if she tuked a holt o' the pipes the noo it wad pe a coronach she'd blaw."

"Very well; I'd rather hear that than nothing. That was a good tune, 'Maggie Lauder.'"

"Oh ay, she wass a ferry coot chune," sighed Andrew.

"And that jolly jig, 'Money Rusk.'"

"'Musk,'" sighed Andrew. "Oh ay, 'Money Musk' mak's ta plood stir in a man maist as much as 'Tullochgorum.'"

"Or 'The Gathering of the Clans,' Andra," cried Steve.

"Hey, she's crant!" cried the man excitedly. "She stirs the plood, too."

"Yes, and it rouses up the men."

"She feels as if she cauld play it a pit the noo."

"Could you? Then look here, Andra. We're going to have a run across the fiord in the moonlight. It's full moon and as clear as day."

"She's retty the noo," said Watty.

"That's right, Watty; and I want Andra to come, too. Look here, old fellow. Get the pipes, and you and I and Watty'll go at the head of the men, and we'll march across to the side, with you playing 'The Gathering of the Clans' in the moonlight, and making the mountains ring. Why, it would be grand."

"Ay, she'd pe crant," said Watty; "put she couldna play it. The notes would freeze, ant come rattling doon like hail-stanes."

"No, they wouldn't, Watty. My word, how the old pipes would make the mountain-side ring and echo again! Such a sound was never heard before so far north."

"Hey! and if she had a claymore an' the plaidie—the plaidie o' the McByles."

"Never mind the plaid, Andra. Put on the sheep-skin coat, and come and try."

The man's eyes flashed, and, raising himself on his elbow, he thrust one hand behind him, and brought out his beloved pipes from under the blankets.

"Tak' haud, laddie," he said. "She was frichten tat the pahg might freeze hairt, put she's quite saft. She'll be retty tirectly."

In ten minutes Andrew was in his big boots and sheep-skin coat and hood, ready to stretch out his hands for the pipes.

"Ahoy, Mr Steve!" came from the deck in Johannes voice. "We're ready to start."

"Coming!" cried Steve, who was trembling for fear his efforts had been thrown away and that Andrew would shirk.

But the man pulled himself together, and marched out with quite a military bearing on to the deck, which was empty, and then down the snow steps to where the men were waiting with the captain at their head. And as Steve and his companions stepped out into the bright moonlight reflected from the dazzling snow, the men burst into a cheer, which they repeated when, without a word, Steve took his place with Watty in front, and then signed to Andrew to go first.

The Highlander did not hesitate, but threw back his head, placed the mouthpiece to his lips, blew out the bag, and then stepped off, sending forth the wild notes quivering on the frosty air. He played, and played well, the thrilling strains, which echoed and throbbed from the sides of the rock in a weird and wonderful manner, and sent a curious sensation trembling through the nerves of every man present.

They were utterly silent now, as they kept step to the music, every one bringing his feet down with a heavy tramp, till the regular beat, beat was repeated from the snowy rocks in front like the regular tap on some giant drum. Then the echoes grew more and more, till to the excited imagination of Andrew, who, like the rest of the crew, was half hysterical from long-continued depression, it seemed as if other pipes were being played high up among the dazzling snow pinnacles, and clans afar off were gathering indeed to the wild notes of the pibroch.

Right away across the fiord, with hearts glowing and pulses beating high, the men marched on till the entrance to the chasm was reached, and Andrew, looking three inches taller than usual, gave a final blast, which went quivering and echoing through the clear, silent air for miles before it quite died away upon the ears of the men, who drew aside their hoods to listen.

Then, and then only, did they burst forth into a stentorian cheer, which was repeated twice and listened to until it died away.

"Bravo! bravo!" cried the captain. "Well done, Andrew, my man. It was grand! It was worth coming through all these troubles to hear."

"Ay, the pipes is crant," said Andrew proudly. "She's the far pestest musick as effer wass for the mountains."

"And never better played," cried the doctor. "I say bravo, too."

"Well, Watty, how are you?" whispered Steve.

"She feels petter, chust noo."

"Keep moving, my lads!" cried the captain cheerily; and he stepped forward.

But not many yards; for there before them, piled-up in mighty masses, was the freshly fallen rock which had come crashing down from on high, and completely blocked up the entrance to the passage-like gorge through which they had been wont to row to the sea.

"Will the water force its way through, Johannes?" said the captain.

"No, sir, never. If it had been ice and solid snow, it would of course in time; but this is all granite rock."

"Well," said the captain, "it will be work for us to haul a boat right over the mountain and keep on the other side."

In due time the word was given, and Andrew went to the front again to strike up some of his gayest lilts; and the men marched back to muster on deck afterwards, glowing with health and exercise, and ready to enjoy a hearty meal.

"Steve, my lad," cried the captain, as soon as they were in the cabin, "God bless you for this! You've started the poor fellows on a fresh lease of life. And done me more good, boy, than ever I did to any one yet."

"Oh, nonsense!" cried Steve, who felt a choking sensation in his throat.

"No nonsense, my lad. Try to keep it up; any way, so that we can kill the demon ennui."

"I'll try," said Steve huskily; "but, hard though it was, I didn't know it would do so much good. But I'll never laugh at the bagpipes again."



CHAPTER FORTY.

BLACK DARKNESS.

Steve worked hard, and he worked wonders; but he could not do impossibilities, and all in the cabin knew that the black darkness was hovering heavily over the men's spirits. They fought it back for an hour, but it settled down again upon them heavier and heavier all through that awful January, when the cold was so intense that it was dangerous to stir. Then there were terrible storms, during which the fine snow-dust penetrated everything, and every drop of moisture condensed on wall or ceiling froze hard. The doctor managed to keep the men free of frost-bite, but he could not master the depression, and consequently their general health began to fail. It was of no use to tell the crew that the end of the darkness was coming, for when January was out it appeared to be black as ever, and they had February to pass through. Steve's efforts fell flat now, and the men became worse, while even the captain grew heartsick as he looked forward to the months of terrible inaction.

"Nothing but a miracle can save us," he said at last. "I am but human. I have done everything I can. Heaven helps those who help themselves, Steve lad; and Heaven knows we have helped ourselves."

"Then Heaven will help us!" cried Steve fervently; "for, after going through what we have, I will not believe that we shall all have to lie down and die."

How cold it was! They ceased to study their instruments; for, like the men, they seemed, Steve said, to have given up in despair of being able to go down low enough to register the number of degrees.

In spite of all efforts, Andrew had gone back to his bunk, where he lay day after day cuddling his pipes, and growing more and more despondent. Watty also went back, though Steve tried in every way to interest him in sports—running, jumping, and the like. He wanted to "gang hame to his mither," he said; and when strong men grew so despondent, it was useless to blame a boy.

It was during one of the darkest times that Steve found the four Norwegians together upon the deck. It was when the skies were black with clouds, and a terrible wind howled through the standing rigging, and threatened to tear down the canvas sheltering of the deck; and it was not to be wondered at that the men's spirits were down to their lowest ebb, and that, consequent upon a report from the doctor, Captain Marsham had asked the prayers of all present for their two brethren who lay grievously mentally sick, for it was more from brain than from bodily ailment. It was Sunday, and the proper observance of that day had always been carefully kept up. Steve, heart-sore, and as depressed as any one on board, had gone on the deck to have a run up and down, as it was impossible to go out; and he soon became aware that Skene was trotting at his heels. Directly after he came upon Johannes and his three companions, and halted, wondering why they were there, as they were generally with the firemen below.

"We were only having a talk, sir," said the harpooner.

"About our position—whether we shall get through it?" cried Steve eagerly.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, and what do you think?"

"That we shall, sir. Why not? It is very dark and cold, but we have plenty of food and fuel. We only want work. The cook yonder is always busy getting things ready for us, and he is the healthiest man on board."

"Then you think we can hold out?"

"Please God, yes, sir," said the men in reverent tones. "We must not give up now."

"No, we must not give up now," echoed Steve.

"We have been thinking that, as soon as this storm has blown over, we may have three or four days' fine, clear weather. The moon is getting toward the full, and if the captain would start an expedition, it would not be so dangerous now."

"Which way would you go?"

"Inland, sir. I don't expect it, but we might find deer or a bear; but whether we did or no, we should have something to do."

The storm had given place to fine clear moonshine, and there was not a breath of air, but no expedition was started; for, to the despair and misery of all, the captain broke down, worn out by mental care; and after three or four days Steve sat by his cot listening to his hurried breathing, and asking himself what was to become of them all if their brave leader died. The boy had to divide his attention between watching and keeping up the temperature of the cabin; but the glowing stove and constantly burning lamp had a hard fight with the cold, which seemed to pierce through everything; and though curtains of sailcloth had been nailed up outside the cabin door, they did little in those piercing hours of the long arctic night.

The boy had just resumed his seat, after rearranging the fur coat which he had thrown over the captain, when Mr Handscombe entered, the sailcloth curtains crackling loudly as he moved them to pass, for the moisture from the breath froze them stiff, and the thickness was constantly being added to.

"How does he seem?" said the doctor, going closer to the fire to thaw the frozen rime from his beard, which was quite a bush of ice from the chin downward, before taking off his heavy fur coat and hood.

"Just the same, sir," said Steve despondently.

"Ah!" exclaimed the doctor sharply; "none of that. Don't you take that tone."

"I—I can't help it!" cried Steve piteously, as he now broke down completely. "I—I have tried so hard, Mr Handscombe. I have done everything till now, and it's of no use. I must lie down now like the rest, and give up, for we shall never see the day again."

A pair of frozen mittens was thrown down, and Steve's hand was grasped.

"You have done everything, my lad," cried the doctor warmly. "I have said nothing, but I have not been blind. I have watched the brave, unselfish way in which you have tried to help and encourage the others; but you have not done yet. Poor Lowe has taken to his bunk quite helpless, and there is hardly a man ready to stir. We two have to take things in hand, and the lot has fallen on us to try and save the crew of this ship. I am only the doctor, so you must take the captain's place, and go on fighting to the end."

"I can't," groaned Steve. "The end is close at hand now. I must give up."

"A British boy ought never to give up, my lad," cried the doctor warmly; "and you are not going to. They say that doctors say while there is life there is hope. Well, captains ought to feel the same with their crews and ships. If it were the end of November, I should be ready to take a despondent view of our position; but we shall soon be having March and the light. And you talk of giving up? Nonsense! You and I, Steve, must be ready to show that we are made of better stuff. Come, your hand upon it. Pluck works wonders, and you have plenty in you yet, though it is a little bit frozen. Now, then, British boy, you'll fight with me till you die? Come!"

"Yes!" cried Steve, for these words seemed to galvanise him into action.

"Hah! I thought so," cried the doctor. "Never say die, eh?"

"Never say die!" cried Steve half hysterically, for long watching and the strain had terribly lowered his tone.

"Come along, then, captain. Your crew is sick all but the cook."

"And the Norsemen," said Steve.

"They're breaking down, boy. Even stout, staunch old Johannes has caught the fever this morning."

"Fever?"

"Well, the complaint, my lad. He is sickening from the terrible depression. It is more than human nature can stand to see one's fellow-creatures breaking down day by day. There are limits to endurance, and sooner or later every one must break down—except doctors and deputy captains. Now, come on and help me administer medicine. We'll get it, and then come back here and give poor Marsham the first dose. Come along."

"But the medicine chest is here," said Steve.

"Yes, but this is a different medicine. I have some one mixing it, and I persuaded Johannes to take the fireman's place and keep the furnace going. On with your cap, and come on. Mitts, too, for it's colder than ever."

Steve gave one more look at the captain, who lay there stern and calm now, as if sleeping more peacefully, and then followed Mr Handscombe to the engine-room, from which came up the clatter of an iron shovel and the rattle of coals.

"That's better," said the doctor, "I've roused Johannes up to work. Now let's go and see if the physic is ready."

Steve followed again, the doctor carrying a lanthorn along the dark, crackling deck, whose canvas roof and walls glittered with pendent icicles which made it resemble some wonderful grotto, while in the neighbourhood of the engine-room the deck was slippery with the frozen moisture. There was a warm glow of light by the galley, though, and a faint sound from the humming stove was breaking the stillness of the place, while quite a burst of hot light saluted them as the doctor opened the door.

"Well, cook, my physic ready?"

"Yes, sir, gallons of it, as strong as I can make it. But I do want a little help, sir. Can't you make that boy Watty rouse up? He'd be better here than in his bunk."

"I'll try—I mean we'll try," said the doctor. "That's right. One basin now, not much, for the captain; then we'll come back for the rest. Hah! excellent. Try it, Captain Steve."

The cook stared, and Steve unwillingly tasted the strong soup.

"Go on," cried the doctor. "It takes ten table-spoonfuls to properly try that stuff."

Steve went on, took his ten table-spoonfuls, and felt better.

"Hah! I knew you would," cried the doctor. "Now look: we must keep up that medicine till further orders, and see if we can't bring the men round. There are plenty of tins of preserved meat in store?"

"Any amount, sir; and plenty of reindeer meat still."

"Then we shan't break down there. Now, then, captain, en avant!"

They returned to the cabin, Steve carrying a small basin and the doctor a large one, which he handed down to Johannes on the way, the Norseman receiving it in a sad, awed, depressed way, and promising to eat it at once. But they had very little success in the cabin, and Steve's spirits, which had been rising, sank again as they returned to the galley, where the cook was ready with a great tin bucket full of the steaming stuff, regular meat essence in its strength.

From here they went down into the forecastle, dim, steamy, and with snowflakes floating here and there. Two or three of the men sat near the stove, but for the most part they were in their bunks, and all greeted the new-comers with a hollow-eyed stare. Their basins were half filled and taken from bunk to bunk; but the men could hardly be roused to eat, and at times the doctor had to angrily insist before they could be induced to try to partake of the steaming preparation.

Watty was the first for whom Steve made in the dark, depressing place, and found him lying dim-eyed, half stupefied, gazing at the light. He thought of how he had roused the lad up before again and again, but the spirit was wanting, on both sides now; and after with great difficulty inducing the lad to partake of a few spoonfuls of the so-called medicine, Watty sank back, and then felt slowly for Steve's hand.

"I'm thenkin', Meester Stevey," he whispered, "that she'll ket pack to Scotland."

"Yes, and you too," said Steve, with as much heart as he could put into his words—little enough, though.

"Nay, she's coing to dee, and she's ferry sorry she wasna always coot frien's."

"Oh, never mind that now, Watty!"

"Put she toes mind, Meester Stevey, and she's ferry sorry. Ye'll pe coing pack to Scotland, sir, and ye'll tak' care an' co and tell my mither a' aboot her and how she deed."

Steve could bear no more. He hurried across to where Andrew was lying, and took him a basin of the doctor's soup. But his success was very little better here. All the men were in the dull, apathetic state pretty well expressed by the Highlander, who, after partaking of a few spoonfuls of the stimulus, said softly:

"Ye'll do her a favour?"

"Yes, Andra, if I can. But stop; do me one first. Get up, and try and help us."

"Nay, she'll never ket oop acain," said the man. "Ye'll chust wait till she's deed, an' then come an' tak' awa' the pipes. They're doon here peside me in her plankets, and she'll tak' care of them an' carry them pack hame wi' her; an' laddie, if she'll try an' learn the pipes, it's the far pestest music as effer wass, an' she'll thenk sometimes apoot puir Andra McByle?"

Steve promised. At another time he could have laughed; but now, in, that dim, gloomy place, surrounded by the faces of the gaunt men whose eyes gleamed faintly in the light of the lanthorn, it all seemed to be more than he could bear; and at last, when everything possible had been done, he followed the doctor back to the cabin, where they sat down in silence.

The doctor was the first to speak.

"It's hard work, Steve boy," he said; "but we've got to do it, and with God's help we will. Poor fellows! they have the muscles, but they have no energy; and I tell you frankly, I'm beginning to be afraid."

"Afraid? What of?" said Steve anxiously.

"That one of them will die; and if we come to that, the effect upon the others will be terrible."

Steve shuddered.

"Can we do anything else?"

"No more than we are doing, lad," said the doctor wearily, "only wait."



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

"NEVER SAY DIE."

Three days passed, during which Mr Handscombe and Steve worked hard watching by turns over their sick; and in spite of the boy's desire to evade the task, the doctor forced him to come out for a tramp in the snow by the light of the moon. The Norsemen, who bore the winter better than the rest, had begun to lose hope, and declined to leave the fire, while the cook always pleaded for excuse—want of time.

It would have been very beautiful out there; but the state of the crew, and his own want of energy, made the fiord look like a cold, dark, cruel, icy prison, and Steve was always glad to get back into the shelter of the ship.

Then came a morning when the doctor complained of being unwell, and asked Steve to go alone to attend to the men.

With a feeling of horror that he could not conceal, the boy slowly left the doctor's cabin.

"He'll lie now as the others are lying," said Steve to himself; and the boy's first thought now was that he ought to go to his own cot and give up, for there was nothing more to be done.

"Never say die," he muttered, though; "never say die;" and, setting his teeth, he went on with the duty the doctor had inaugurated, and visited man after man, praying, exhorting, and bullying them into partaking of food instead of lying there, dying, as it were, by inches.

One by one the Norsemen gave up, till only Johannes made the least effort, and that only when Steve stood by. Then came the day when he, too, resigned himself to his fate; and on going, after leaving him lying in the engine-room, to the galley, Steve found that the cook was seated listless and weary, his chin upon his hands, his elbows on his knees, gazing at the dying fire in his stove.

"What!" cried Steve, "you are not going to give up?"

The man looked at him sadly for a few moments without speaking, and then shook his head.

"The cold stuns them, the cold stuns them!" said the boy aloud in his despair and horror as he turned back to the cabin. "Mr Handscombe," he cried, "what shall I give them? I can do no more."

There was no reply, and with a thrill of horror running through him Steve fled back to the deck, where the black darkness horrified him still more, for the lamps had gone out for want of attention, the boiler fire was nearly extinct, and even the outer cold seemed preferable to that gloomy icy vault, so full of horror. He literally staggered to the ice-covered canvas door of the awning, and in his fearful loneliness strove to get the frozen fastenings undone, so that he might at least have the stars of heaven for company. And then he felt that he was not alone, for there was a sharp bark, the dog sprang to his side, and the boy dropped upon his knees and flung his arms about his faithful companion's neck.

"Skeny, old lad!" he cried with a sob, "and I thought I was quite left."

A sharp bark was the response, and in his delight the dog butted at him, seized his arm in his teeth, and playfully worried it.

The next minute Steve rose to his feet, and, hardly knowing what he was doing, dragged the canvas doorway open, and staggered out of the darkness and down the snow steps into what looked once more a world of silvery light; for the moon was at the full, and it seemed nearly as light as day. In his delight the dog threw himself on his side to force a way through the snow, and then turned over to repeat the performance, and leap and race round his master, who stood shading his eyes from the light, and staring before him at something misty and spectral-looking in the distance. Finally the dog burst into a joyous peal of barking at the objects which had struck his master, and there came the sharp report of a gun, followed by a rolling volley of echoes.

"Is this dreaming? Am I getting worse?" thought Steve; and at that moment there came a loud "Ahoy!"

"Some one there!—there in that terrible solitude! Then it must be help."

The excitement and reaction were too much. Steve strove to shout again; but the words failed him, and he only uttered a hoarse cry. But the dog responded bravely and loudly it seemed to the boy at first, then faintly and more faintly, while the moonlight was dim, and then all dark, for he had sunk insensible upon the snow.

When he opened his eyes Skene was standing with his fore paws upon his chest, and nearly a dozen men in heavy furs stood about him, while one white-haired, burly-looking personage, who was supporting him, said:

"Come, my lad, better? Where are your friends? in the ship?"

"Uncle!" was all that Steve could pant out, for he recognised the voice that he had not heard for a couple of years.



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

THE WAY OUT.

Captain Young it was with his crew! For the rescue party which had gone out in search of the Ice Blink, and met with the fate of so many who penetrate the solitudes of the north, had been found and rescued by those they sought to save.

Their coming, as they advanced toward the frozen-in Hvalross cheering loudly, acted like an electric shock, and before they reached the deck with Steve, men who had been lying in hopeless misery shut up in their bunks came crawling out to meet the help which they knew must have arrived.

An hour later Steve could hardly believe in the change, for the silence in the ship had given place to an eager buzzing of conversation; the fires were burning and sending forth their warm glow; and though in the cabin the captain still lay insensible, the doctor had been galvanised into life, and was talking eagerly to Captain Young.

"So, Steve," cried the latter, "you are in command now, eh?"

"Oh, nonsense, uncle! That is only what Mr Handscombe said," replied the lad.

"Well, you must have been captain and crew, too," said his uncle, who was making a tremendous meal. "But you're a poor officer, my lad, to let your men get into such a low, exhausted state."

"You don't know, uncle, how every one has tried," said Steve reproachfully.

"Tried?" said Captain Young. "Why, when we came on board an hour ago your men pretended that they were all dying. Now they are feasting along with my lads as if nothing whatever had been the matter."

"You don't know how reduced and helpless we had all grown, sir," said the doctor, coming to Steve's help; "and you do not think of the effect upon them of your coming with help when they had all literally lain down to die."

"I know, I know, my dear sir!" said the bluff, red-faced, grey-headed man. "I've gone through it all. Last winter I saw my poor fellows go down one by one, till I was the only man about who tried to fight the darkness and depression; and all the time so utterly weak and despairing that I could at any time have lain down and given up all hope. But we got through the winter, and this year my lads have held up wonderfully, and have battled through with hardly one breakdown."

"It is astonishing," said the doctor.

"Perhaps so; but I daresay all of you would have fought through a second year far better than your first."

Steve shook his head.

"Nonsense, boy! It is principally the mind, and being used to things. You wrote at school, I know, 'Familiarity breeds contempt,' which, written simply, means, 'Bogies don't frighten you when you've seen them more than once.'"

"But our poor fellows were very bad, sir," said Steve.

"Yes, in spirits, my boy. Now they think it's all right, they get up and talk and eat and drink."

"Well, but, uncle," said Steve, "see how different our position is now!"

"Nonsense! It's all fancy, my lad. You're worse off now than you were a couple of hours ago."

"Worse off?" cried Steve.

"Of course. You have a dozen hungry men to provide for."

"But you've come to save us, and brought us hope."

"Where is it then, boy?" cried Captain Young. "You all had as much hope as we had—far more; but you gave up and smothered it. We haven't come to save you; we want you to save us."

"I don't understand you," said Steve.

"Then I'll make myself plain, my lad. You have a sound ship here in this fiord, well provisioned, and with plenty of fuel, besides having a doctor to take care of you. On the other hand, we have a ship sixty miles away, yonder on the east side of this great island or peninsula of a vast arctic continent, for we have not made out much; but our ship lies where it was driven ashore by the ice, crushed beyond repairing, good for nothing but to make us a house to live in."

"Then you have been within sixty miles of us all the time!" cried the doctor.

"Yes, sixty miles, I should say, south-east, and only found a way across the mountains during these last few days, and quite by accident; for they have always been like a wall to us till now."

"But you have tried to get across to here before?"

"Once; but our expeditions have generally been in the other directions— south and east."

"And you have kept on making expeditions in this terrible weather?" said the doctor.

"Terrible? When it is quite calm, and the moon makes it like day," said Captain Young, smiling. "There, we have had a year's more experience, and have grown used to it. Whenever the weather was clear we have been out."

"Then you have not come to save us?" said Steve, who had grown very thoughtful.

"No, my dear boy; you have got to save us," said Captain Young cheerily. "We would not give up hope, but worked away; and at last we have found the help we wanted, for our ship can never sail again, even if we could get her afloat. You came to rescue us like the brave fellows you were, and here we are ready to be rescued and taken home to dear old England once again."

Steve's face was comic in its perplexity.

"We seem a nice party to save your great, strong, hearty men," he said.

"Bah!" cried Captain Young. "We've done you good already, and you'll all soon come round and be able to help us sleigh all our treasures across the mountains whenever the weather is fine. What a gloriously snug position you are in here; far more sheltered than we."

Steve exchanged glances with the doctor; and just then, looking very weak, Mr Lowe tottered into the cabin, the coming of the crew of the Ice Blink having roused him too.

"You steamed up this fiord, of course?" said Captain Young.

"Yes," replied Steve.

"Then there is only one winter's ice around you, and therefore you ought to be free by the end of July."

Steve groaned.

"What's the matter, my lad?"

"You don't know that the ice-floes jammed up the mouth of the fiord after we were in."

"Indeed! Well, boy, nature must unjam it when the ice is in motion again. Mouths of inlets are always opening and closing here. Let's wait and see. I want to see Marsham, though, look different from this."

He had his wish, and within a week; for all idea of the Ice Blink's going back was put an end to by a succession of terrible gales. When at last the weather settled again the moon was growing old, and a trip right up a valley on the far side of the glacier, where they had never explored at all, led them toward the mountains whose pass was so choked with snow that the party were forced to return to the Hvalross, where they were quartered for the next six weeks.

Their coming and the example of the acclimatised men worked wonders, so that by the end of those six weeks there was hardly a sick man left; and when daylight and the hardened snow gave them opportunities journey after journey was made to the Ice Blink for the most valuable of the skins the crew had collected, the rest being left in the hope of the Hvalross sailing round to that side of the great promontory, so as to get within easy distance, and then load up with all worth taking.

But that was never done, for it was quite the end of August, and a feeling of despair was creeping over both crews, as it seemed that they must prepare for another winter in the ice, when a terrific gale swept down the fiord one night.

It had its results.

All through the spring and summer the water had been rising in the blocked-up fiord, for that which had escaped from the chasm was very small in quantity since the crumbling down of the rocks that night; and consequently the Hvalross rode some thirty yards higher than when she was frozen-in amongst the newly formed ice. The weight of this water against the ice dam was tremendous, and there was always hope that it would force its way through; but the piled-up floe held good till the night of the gale, when there was a heavy sea on, and the ship lay tugging at her two anchors, hard set to hold her own so as not to be driven down the fiord and crushed amongst the breakers.

The canvas shelter had long before been lowered, and every one was on deck, waiting once more for the steam to be up sufficiently to enable them to go ahead a little and ease the strain on the anchors. At last there was sufficient pressure, and the familiar ting came from the engine-room gong, the propeller spun round, and the dragging at the anchors ceased. It was just in time, for all at once there was a fearful roar heard loudly above the rushing and shrieking of the wind.

"Full speed ahead!" signalled the captain; and the propeller churned up the water now rushing by them at a terrific rate, while all gazed wildly at the sides, expecting to be swept down the fiord to destruction in the masses of ice. For the great floe dam which closed them in had given way at last, and for a short time their position was one of terrible peril. But the cables proved true, eased as they were by the full power of the propeller, and half an hour after the Hvalross was riding nearly forty feet lower than she had been in the morning, with the way out to the ocean free.

In those precarious waters no opportunities can be lost. A place open one day may, by a change of wind, be closed the next by the ice-floes; and in view of this the Hvalross glided out of her prison deeply laden with the spoil of another summer in the far north, and with the two crews cheering loudly as they went. Then after various vicissitudes of being caught in the ice, freed, caught, and freed again, she made her way southward till the last lane in the ice-floes was threaded, and her head laid for Nordoe in the brightest of sunshine, and the deck in the long summer day feeling hot.

There was a warm and friendly, almost affectionate, parting from the Norwegians, Johannes looking quite mournful when he shook farewell hands with Steve; but they were cheered loudly as they stepped on to the little quay, any sadness they felt being chased away by the many friends who pressed round them to welcome them back from the icy seas.

Next morning the head of the stout little steamer was laid for home, and the crew gave vent to the heartiest of cheers, which increased to a roar of delight as Andrew, forgetful of all past suffering, made his appearance, proud and solemn-looking, to march round the deck with his pipes, driving Skene the dog below with crest and tail drooping, and his sharp, white teeth bared to the gums.

Then all settled down to the quiet monotony of the voyage home, for the stormy times were past, and the vessel glided south, heavily laden, but steady, and looking, as Steve said, perfectly satisfied with having well done her work. And so she had, for every man who had sailed was returning safe and sound, and she was bringing back the captain and crew of brave men for whom they had gone in search.

"I feel convinced," said Captain Marsham one evening, "that we were the first visitors to those icy shores."

"Yes," said Captain Young; "I doubt whether any one ever reached so far north before; but I don't like leaving my ship and so much valuable cargo behind."

"Let them rest for the next who go there," said Captain Marsham. "It would have been madness to have run the risk of being caught in the ice again."

"Yes, we had enough darkness and cold to last some time."

Steve went out on deck, and found Watty right in the bows bribing Skene to sit up with scraps of meat brought from the galley; but he ceased and looked shyly at the boy as he advanced.

"Well, Watty," cried Steve, "we shall soon be home again now, all alive and well."

"Ay, she'll sune pe seeing Glasgie, and her puir auld mither ance again."

"How should you like to go up north once more?"

Watty shook his shock head.

"The pear's grease is peautiful, Meester Stevey, and she ton't mind the chilplains after a pit; but it's a' tat tairkness mak's her hairt sair. Hey, but it's a waefu' place."

"Then you wouldn't care to go again?"

"Na," said Watty; "put if she ganged there acain to fetch the ither ship she'd gang wi' her."

"You would, Watty?"

"Ay, tat she would, and to the ferry wairld's end."

THE END.