There was a long silence after this--that kind of silence which one
may preserve who is at the point of death.

"I wonder how he got here?" said Agnew, at last. "The letter mentions
a whaler. No doubt the ship has been driven too far south; it has
foundered; he has escaped in a boat, either alone or with others; he
has been carried along this channel, and has landed here, afraid to go
any farther."

"But his boat, what has become of that?"

"His boat! That must have gone long ago. The letter was written in
1820. At any rate, let's look around."

We did so. After some search we found fragments of a rotted rope
attached to a piece of rock.

"That," said Agnew, "must have been fastened to the boat; and as for
the boat herself, she has long ago been swept away from this."

"What shall we do now?" I said, after a long silence.

"There's only one thing," said Agnew. "We must go on."

"Go on?" I asked, in wonder.

"Certainly," said he, confidently. "Will you stay here? No. Will you
go back? You can't. We must, therefore, go on. That is our only hope."

"Hope!" I cried. "Do you still talk of hope?"