on the course that had been sought in vain for four hundred years. If
he staked his life and abilities, would it not have been natural if
we had been proud of having such a man to support?

But was it so?

For a long time he struggled to complete his equipment. Money was still
lacking, and little interest was shown in him and his work, outside the
few who have always helped so far as was in their power. He himself
gave everything he possessed in the world. But this time, as last,
he nevertheless had to put to sea loaded with anxieties and debts,
and, as before, he sailed out quietly on a summer night.

Autumn was drawing on. One day there came a letter from him. In
order to raise the money he could not get at home for his North Polar
expedition he was going to the South Pole first. People stood still
-- did not know what to say. This was an unheard-of thing, to make
for the North Pole by way of the South Pole! To make such an immense
and entirely new addition to his plans without asking leave! Some
thought it grand; more thought it doubtful; but there were many who
cried out that it was inadmissible, disloyal -- nay, there were some
who wanted to have him stopped. But nothing of this reached him. He
had steered his course as he himself had set it, without looking back.

Then by degrees it was forgotten, and everyone went on with his own
affairs. The mists were upon us day after day, week after week --
the mists that are kind to little men and swallow up all that is
great and towers above them.

Suddenly a bright spring day cuts through the bank of fog. There