Upon our voyage to the north I shall not dwell. I have neither the time nor the willingness to do so. The memory of those days is weird and depressing. I would cover with all speed the place they occupy in this history.

From Bottle Bay we followed the great salt current eastward, as we did not believe it possible to work northward against it. For two days all went well, and we found happiness in our reunion and homeward progress. Then all the joyless misery of Antarctic lands and seas seemed to gather and shut us in.

For five weeks through this blinding fog, crashing ice, and imminent, sleep-destroying peril we crept, and toiled, and struggled, and battled our way toward open water. For days we did not remove our clothing to rest, but lay down ready for instant action, whether to save or desert the ship.

Depression seized upon us all. Edith Gale was ill much of the time and lost her appreciation of the beauties of nature. Even Gale himself found it hard to create cheer through this grim period. During moments of comparative calm he wandered about with his hands in his pockets, trying to whistle, but it was a dismal tune.

As for myself, I despaired utterly. More than ever I realized what I had done in bringing those who had trusted me into so dire a plight. And for what? To prove a theory that was worth nothing to them or to me, after all was told. To seek out a practically inaccessible land, and what now seemed to me a paltry, indolent race that added nothing to the world’s store of wealth or progress—to pay for it with our lives. I had promised a new world, perhaps wealth beyond our wildest dreams. I had found, instead, a land of dreams only, and of shadows. I had brought us all, at last, face to face with privation, suffering—death. Even should we eventually reach home, it seemed to me that I, still a penniless adventurer, could not presume to claim the hand of Edith Gale. Truly I was in the depths.

Whether we kept with the current, or what part it played in our struggles, we could not tell, but we reached at last the easier seas below Cape Horn, and here we were met by what seemed to us the King of All Storms, determined at last to destroy us for having penetrated the depths of his domain.

We were off the South Shetlands again, somewhere near the spot where, twenty years before, my uncle’s vessel had been last seen battling with a mighty tempest, and was supposed to have gone down. I reflected vaguely that it must have been another just such as this, and that it was a curious fate that had brought me with those I loved to find a grave in the same unfriendly waters.

There were nights, now, and the black sea and sky made this one a memory that divides as with a sable curtain all that went before it from all that followed after.

Once there came a heavy jar as our keel struck and grated over some hidden reef. We had no means of knowing where we were, and even had we known, the knowledge would have availed us little in these uncharted seas.

Suddenly, in the electric glow of our searchlight, there rose straight before us a black wall that was not the penetrable night. A great wave just then lifted us and bore us forward. An instant later there came a jar that threw us from our feet, and then the stanch old Billowcrest no longer tossed and pitched and battled, but lay rocking helplessly, as though wounded to the life.

There came first a quick order to lower the boats. Then another to hold them in readiness, but not to launch until the vessel gave signs of breaking up. It was better to remain where we were, as long as we could—to wait for daylight, if possible. Examined below, the Billowcrest showed as yet no opening, and seemed to be lying easily.

Morning dawned at last on a gray, desolate shore, with a sea as gray and desolate, between. But the King of Storms, satisfied, perhaps, that he had stranded us on a desert island, had gone his way.

Chauncey Gale came on deck presently with Edith, still pale and ill, but more animated than she had been for days. With Captain Biffer I had come out early to view the shore.

“Well, Biff,” greeted Gale, “you seem to have got us anchored some place at last. Don’t look much like the last place we stopped, but I s’pose it’s all in a day’s work. What do you call it?”

“One of the South Shetlands, I should say. I don’t know which.”

“How’s the ship? Any holes in her yet?”

“No, and she ain’t grinding any that I can hear. But she’s aground good and hard. She seems to be on a flat surface—mebbe sand. The sea’s running down, too, and I shouldn’t wonder if we were left high and dry before long.”

“Oh, can’t we go ashore?” asked Edith Gale, eagerly.

Poor girl, it was the first real land she had seen for more than a year, and even this cheerless coast seemed inviting.

Captain Biffer nodded grimly.

“We’ll have plenty of time to do that, ma’am,” he said, “before we get out of here, I’m thinking.”

“Oh, Nicholas, will you take me right away? I do so want to set foot on solid ground again.”

“We will go as soon as the Captain will let us,” I said, “and give us somebody to take us over.”

The sea continued to run down, and during the forenoon the Billowcrest listed, though far less than if she had been a deeper vessel. The weather cleared just before luncheon, and soon afterwards Chauncey and Edith Gale, with Officer Larkins and myself, and a small crew, made ready to set out in the launch for investigation. At the last moment, we heard somebody come puffing up the companion-way, and Zar, fully arrayed for the trip, stood before us.

“Look heah, I wan’ you take me in dat boat! I jes’ wan’ to set dis old foot on solidificated groun’ once more befo’ I die. I mighty tiahd dis ole ship dat toss, an’ tip, an’ spread-eagle, and doubleshuffle, an’ keep hit up foh six weeks at a stretch, an’ now tip ovah like a side-hill, so a’ old, fat ’ooman like me cain’t fin’ her balance, nohow. I wan’ go long, I tell you.”

So Zar accompanied us, and we landed presently at a shelving beach, where we were greeted by some noisy birds, and a few small hair-seals, who slipped into the water as we approached. Leaving the crew we made our way between barren hills to the country beyond.

The sun had come out, now, and being midsummer it seemed warm and genial, especially to those who had seen no other land for so long.

“Not much like our violet reception in the Antarctics, eh, Nick?” said Gale.

“Oh, but it’s land! land!” breathed Edith “Warm, solid land! Aren’t we glad to see it, Zar?” and it seemed to me that she grew well as I watched her.

“Yes, ma’am! We is dat! Hit’s a mighty po’ country, I spec’, but hit seem to me right now as fine an’ proliferous as ole Vaginny!”

Even Mr. Larkins seemed to joy in the land feeling, and said that it reminded him of places in Newfoundland, where as a boy he had found the bake-apple. He believed we could find it here, if we looked about a little.

We pushed our way inland, and farther down the coast. There was a sparse moss vegetation here and there, and on one sunny bank we found a considerable bed of this growth. Edith Gale dropped down upon it luxuriously, and the rest of us followed her example.

“Oh, how beautiful!” she cried, “and how I loathe the ship! It seems to me that I could stay here forever!”

Zar grunted approvingly, but Gale said:

“I’d be glad enough to hurry back to the old Billowcrest if she was only afloat. We’ll get tired enough of this, I’m thinking, before that happens.”

I made no comment on this, but called attention to a ledge of rocks just beyond.

“Looks as if somebody had been hammering on it,” I said. “I suppose nobody lives on these islands.”

“Not a soul crreature,” declared Mr. Larkins. “Forthy year ago they used to come here for the furr-seals, but they got the last of ’em in a shmall bit of a time. No pay in comin’ for the little hair fellies. ’Tis said they’s gold here, too, but I’ve never met the man that saw the color of it.”

We rose and walked on. We had grown a bit chilly, sitting, and would presently return to the vessel. All at once, Edith Gale stopped and held up her hand.

“Wait—listen!” she commanded.

Borne to us on a light breeze from the south, came the sound of a voice singing.

We looked at each other startled. There was something about it, most uncanny.

“My good lawd!” groaned Zar. “Dat’s a sho sperritt! Lemme get outen heah an’ back to dat boat.”

Mr. Larkins detained her.

“Wait,” he said. “There’s a bit of an echo hereabout. The singin’ ’ll be comin’ from the ship, I think.”

There was a wave of relief. Then Gale dissented.

“That’s not from the ship. The wind isn’t right. It’s from the land——”

We hurried to the top of a little rise, just ahead; here we halted and listened again. We could hear much more plainly now. Even the words came quite distinctly.

“Selkirk’s hymn,” I whispered. “I know it perfectly. My grandmother sang it to her children, and my mother to me.”

“Yes! yes! and that, too!” I added, excitedly. “Some one is cast away in this place. Come, we must find him!”

“Oh, and quickly!” urged Edith; but the singing had begun again and we hesitated, to listen.

“I know that, too,” said Edith. “It is by James Montgomery. It is also a hymn.”

“And another of those I heard in childhood,” I answered eagerly. “The favorite of—of one who perished—Come on! everybody, I must see what this means!”

The singing had ceased now, but we hastily scrambled over the rocks in the direction from which it had come. Pushing out from behind a great bowlder we looked down a little slope upon what at first seemed to be a heap of bowlders. Then we saw that it was the construction of human hands—a habitation. We descended quickly, though almost in silence, only whispering caution to each other. A rolling stone, however, slipped from beneath my foot and went plunging to the side of the hut. A moment later there stepped out into view a curious fur-clad figure—tall, bearded, and with masses of grizzled hair upon his shoulders. An aged man he seemed, but bronzed, erect, and with the movement of strength.

A moment he looked at us as if doubting his vision. Then, flinging both arms in the air, he gave a great cry of welcome.

We rushed down and surrounded him. He seized our hands wildly.

“Who are you?” he cried. “Who are you? And why are you here?”

But I besought him with fierce eagerness.

“Tell us, first, who you are!” I commanded, “and why you are here!”

“Oh, it does not matter,” he answered, “I have been dead twenty years! But when I was in the world of men I was called Nicholas Lovejoy.”

“Then,” I shouted, “you are my uncle—for I am Nicholas Chase!”