a saucepanful of the dry bones of animals--in plain words, the
dinner for the day. By way of ornament to the dull brown walls,
icicles appear in the crevices of the timber, gleaming at
intervals in the red fire-light. No wind whistles outside the
lonely dwelling--no cry of bird or beast is heard. Indoors, and
out-of-doors, the awful silence of the Polar desert reigns, for
the moment, undisturbed.



Chapter 7.


The first sound that broke the silence came from the inner
apartment. An officer lifted the canvas screen in the hut of the
_Sea-mew_ and entered the main room. Cold and privation had badly
thinned the ranks. The commander of the ship--Captain
Ebsworth--was dangerously ill. The first lieutenant was dead. An
officer of the _Wanderer_ filled their places for the time, with
Captain Helding's permission. The officer so employed
was--Lieutenant Crayford.

He approached the man at the fireside, and awakened him.

"Jump up, Bateson! It's your turn to be relieved."

The relief appeared, rising from a heap of old sails at the back
of the hut. Bateson vanished, yawning, to his bed. Lieutenant
Crayford walked backward and forward briskly, trying what
exercise would do toward warming his blood.