Kitobni o'qish: «Red Rooney: The Last of the Crew», sahifa 14

“But suppose,” argued Rooney, “that you did not know that his object was good—that you looked on him as a cruel, bloody, heartless monster, who cared not for your cries of pain—would your ignorance change his character?”

“No, no; he would remain good, whatever you might think,” said Angut quickly; “I see. I see. I will try to think as you think—the Great Father is good, must be good. And He will prove it some day. Don’t you think so, Ridroonee?”

“Ay, truly, I think so; I am sure of it. But listen! Do you not hear sounds?”

They both listened intently, and gazed towards the northern headland of the bay, which at the time was bathed in brilliant moonlight. Presently two black specks, one larger than the other, were seen to round the point, and the chattering of women’s voices was heard.

It was Arbalik in a kayak, preceding an oomiak propelled by several women. In her impatience to join her lord, Madame Okiok had insisted on a forced march. A few minutes more, and the women landed amid noisy demonstrations of satisfaction. Ere long the united party were busy round the unfailing lamps, enjoying social intercourse over an intermediate meal which, as it came between supper and breakfast, has not yet obtained a name.

Chapter Twenty.
The Chase continued and disastrously interrupted

The day following that on which the wives of Simek and Okiok, and the mothers of Arbalik and Ippegoo with the spinster Sigokow arrived, the southern Eskimos resumed their route northward, and the pursuers continued their journey to the south—the former in their sledges over the still unmelted ice-foot along the shore; the latter, in kayaks, by a lead of open water, which extended as far as the eye could reach.

Angut, Okiok, and Simek led the way in kayaks, the kayak damaged by the seal having been repaired. The other men were forced to embark in the women’s boat. Eskimo men deem this an undignified position, and will not usually condescend to work in oomiaks, which are invariably paddled by the women, but Rooney, being influenced by no such feelings, quietly took the steering paddle, and ultimately shamed Arbalik and Ippegoo as well as the sons of Okiok into lending a hand.

During the first part of the voyage all went well, but next day the lead of open water was found to trend off the land, and run out into the pack, where numerous great glaciers were seen—some aground, others surging slowly southward with the Polar current.

“I don’t like the look of it,” remarked Angut, when the other leaders of the party ranged alongside of him for a brief consultation.

“Neither do I,” said Simek. “The season is far advanced, and if there should be a general break-up of the ice while we are out among the floes, we should be lost.”

“But it is impossible for us to travel by land,” said Okiok. “No man knows the land here. The sea runs so far in that we might spend many moons in going round the bays without advancing far on our journey.”

“So there is nothing left for us but to go on by water,” said Angut, with decision. “Nunaga must be rescued.”

“And so must Tumbler,” said Okiok.

“And so must Pussi,” said Simek.

“What are you fellows consulting about?” shouted Red Rooney, coming up at that moment with the others in the oomiak.

“We are talking of the danger of the ice breaking up,” answered Angut. “But there is no other way to travel than by the open lead, so we have decided to go on.”

“Of course you have,” returned Rooney; “what else can we do? We must risk something to save Nunaga, Pussi, and Tumbler, to say nothing of Kabelaw. Get along, my hearties!”

How Rooney translated the last phrase into Eskimo is a point on which we can throw no light,—but no matter.

In a short time the party reached the neighbourhood of one of the largest bergs, one of those gigantic masses of ice which resemble moderately-sized mountains, the peaks of which rose several hundred feet above the sea-level, while its base was more than a mile in diameter. There were little valleys extending into its interior, through which flowed rivulets, whose winding courses were broken here and there by cascades. In short, the berg resembled a veritable island made of white sugar, the glittering sun-lit slopes of which contrasted finely with its green-grey shadows and the dark-blue depths of its wide rifts and profound caverns.

The lead or lane of water ran to within fifty yards of this ice-island, so that Rooney had a splendid view of it, and, being of a romantic turn of mind, amused himself as the oomiak glided past by peopling the white cliffs and valleys with snow-white inhabitants. While he was thus employed, there occurred a sudden crashing and rending in the surrounding pack which filled him with consternation. It produced indeed the same effect on the Eskimos, as well it might, for the very catastrophe which they all dreaded was now taking place.

A slight swell on the sea appeared to be the originating cause, but, whatever it was, the whole surface was soon broken up, and the disintegrated masses began to grind against each other in confusion. At the same time the lead which the voyagers had been following grew narrower, and that so rapidly, that they had barely time to jump upon a mass of ice when the opening closed and crushed the oomiak and Okiok’s kayak to pieces.

Angut and Simek had time to lift their kayaks on to the ice, but that, as it turned out, was of no advantage.

“Make for the berg,” shouted Angut to the women, at the same time seizing the hand of Kunelik, who chanced to be nearest to him, and assisting her to leap from one heaving mass to another. Rooney performed the same act of gallantry for old Kannoa, who, to his surprise, went over the ice like an antique squirrel. Okiok took his own wife in hand. As for Pussimek, she did not wait for assistance, but being of a lively and active, as well as a stout and cheery disposition, she set off at a pace which caused her tail to fly straight out behind her, and made it difficult for Simek to keep up with her. Ippegoo and Arbalik, with the sons of Okiok, tried their best to save the two kayaks, for well they knew the danger of being left on the ice without the means of escaping; but the suddenness of the disruption, the width of the various channels they had to leap, and the instability of the masses, compelled them, after much delay, to drop their burdens and save themselves. They only managed to reach the berg with extreme difficulty.

“Thank God, all safe!—but we have had a close shave,” exclaimed Rooney, as he held out his hand to assist Ippegoo, who was the last of the party to clamber up the rugged side of the berg from the broken floe-pieces which were grinding against it.

“I wish we could say with truth ‘All safe,’” was Okiok’s gloomy response, as he surveyed the ice-laden sea; “we have escaped being crushed or drowned, but only to be starved to death.”

“A living man may hope,” returned Angut gravely.

“Ay, and where there is life,” added Rooney, “there ought to be thankfulness.”

“I would be more thankful,” said Ippegoo, with a woe-begone expression, “if we had saved even a spear; but what can we do without food or weapons?”

“Do? my son,” said Kunelik; “can we not at least keep up heart? Who ever heard of any good coming of groaning and looking miserable?”

“Right you are, old girl,” cried Rooney, giving the mother of Ippegoo a hearty pat on the shoulder. “There is no use in despairing at the very beginning of our troubles; besides, is there not the Great Spirit who takes care of us, although we cannot see or hear Him? I believe in God, my friends, and I’ll ask Him to help us now.”

So saying, to the surprise of the Eskimos, the seaman uncovered his head, and looking upwards, uttered a few words of earnest prayer in the name of Jesus.

At first the unsophisticated natives looked about as if they expected some visible and immediate answer to the petition, but Rooney explained that the Great Spirit did not always answer at once or in the way that man might expect.

“God works by means of us and through us,” he said. “We have committed the care of ourselves to Him. What we have now to do is to go to work, and do the best we can, and see what things He will throw in our way, or enable us to do, in answer to our prayer. Now, the first thing that occurs to me is to get away from where we stand, because that overhanging cliff beside us may fall at any moment and crush us. Next, we should go and search out some safe cavern in which we may spend the night, for we sha’n’t be able to find such a place easily in the dark, and though it will be but a cold shelter, still, cold shelter is better than none—so come along.”

These remarks of the sailor, though so familiar—perhaps commonplace—to us, seemed so just and full of wisdom to the unsophisticated natives, and were uttered in such an off-hand cheery tone, that a powerful effect was created, and the whole party at once followed the seaman, who, by this display of coolness, firmness, and trustfulness in a higher power, established a complete ascendancy over his friends. From that time they regarded him as their leader, even although in regard to the details of Eskimo life he was of course immeasurably their inferior.

They soon found a small cave, not far from the spot where they had landed—if we may use that expression—and there made preparation to spend the night, which by that time was drawing on.

Although their craft had been thus suddenly destroyed and lost, they were not left absolutely destitute, for each one, with that prompt mental activity which is usually found in people whose lives are passed in the midst of danger, had seized the bear-skin, deerskin, or fur bag on which he or she happened to be sitting, and had flung it on to the floes before leaping thereon; and Ippegoo, with that regard for internal sustenance which was one of his chief characteristics, had grasped a huge lump of seal’s flesh, and carried it along with him. Thus the whole party possessed bedding, and food for at least one meal.

Of course the meal was eaten not only cold but raw. In the circumstances, however, they were only too thankful, to care much about the style of it. Before it was finished daylight fled, the stars came out, and the aurora borealis was shooting brilliantly athwart the sky. Gradually the various members of the party spread their skins on the most level spot discoverable, and, with lumps of ice covered with bits of hide for pillows, went to sleep with what resembled free-and-easy indifference.

Two of the party, however, could not thus easily drop into happy oblivion. Red Rooney felt ill at ease. His knowledge of those Arctic seas had taught him that their position was most critical, and that escape would be almost miraculous, for they were eight or ten miles at least off the land, on a perishable iceberg, with an ice-encumbered sea around, and no means of going afloat, even if the water had been free. A feeling of gloom which he had not felt before, and which he could not banish, rendered sleep impossible; he therefore rose, and sauntered out of the cave.

Outside he found Angut, standing motionless near the edge of an ice-cliff, gazing up into the glorious constellations overhead.

“I can’t sleep, Angut,” said the seaman; “I suppose you are much in the same way?”

“I do not know. I did not try,” returned the Eskimo in a low voice; “I wish to think, not to sleep. Why cannot the Kablunet sleep?”

“Well, it’s hard to tell. I suppose thinking too much has something to do with it. The fact is, Angut, that we’ve got into what I call a fix, and I can’t for the life of me see how we are to get out of it. Indeed I greatly fear that we shall never get out of it.”

“If the Great Spirit wills that our end should be now,” said Angut, “is the Kablunet afraid to die?”

The question puzzled Rooney not a little.

“Well,” he replied, “I can’t say that I’m afraid, but—but—I don’t exactly want to die just yet, you see. The fact is, my friend, that I’ve got a wife and children and a dear old grandmother at home, and I don’t quite relish the idea of never seein’ them again.”

“Have you not told me,” said Angut, with a look of solemn surprise, “that all who love the Great Spirit shall meet again up there?” He pointed to the sky as he spoke.

“Ay, truly, I said that, and I believe that. But a man sometimes wants to see his wife and children again in this life—and, to my thinkin’, that’s not likely with me, as things go at present. Have you much hope that we shall escape?”

“Yes, I have hope,” answered the Eskimo, with a touch of enthusiasm in his tone. “I know not why. I know not how. Perhaps the Great Spirit who made me put it into me. I cannot tell. All around and within me is beyond my understanding—but—the Great Spirit is all-wise, all-powerful, and—good. Did you not say so?”

“Yes, I said so; and that’s a trustworthy foundation, anyhow,” returned the sailor meditatively; “wise, powerful, and good—a safe anchorage. But now, tell me, what chances, think you, have we of deliverance?”

“I can think of only one,” said Angut. “If the pack sets fast again, we may walk over it to the land. Once there, we could manage to live—though not to continue our pursuit of Ujarak. That is at an end.”

In spite of himself, the poor fellow said the last words in a tone which showed how deeply he was affected by the destruction of his hope to rescue Nunaga.

“Now my friend seems to me inconsistent,” said Rooney. “He trusts the Great Spirit for deliverance from danger. Is, then, the rescue of Nunaga too hard for Him?”

“I know not,” returned Angut, who was, how ever, cheered a little by his friend’s tone and manner. “Everything is mystery. I look up, I look around, I look within; all is dark, mysterious. Only on this is my mind clear—the Great Spirit is good. He cannot be otherwise. I will trust Him. One day, perhaps, He will explain all. What I understood not as a little boy, I understand now as a man. Why should there not be more light when I am an older man? If things go on in the mind as they have been going ever since I can remember, perfect light may perhaps come at last.”

“You don’t think like most of your countrymen,” said Rooney, regarding the grave earnest face of his friend with increased interest.

There was a touch of sadness in the tone of the Eskimo as he replied—

“No; I sometimes wonder—for their minds seem to remain in the childish condition; though Okiok and Simek do seem at times as if they were struggling into more light. I often wonder that they think so little, and think so foolishly; but I do not speak much about it; it only makes them fear that I am growing mad.”

“I have never asked you, Angut—do your tribes in the north here hold the same wild notions about the earth and heavens as the southern Eskimos do?”

“I believe they do,” replied Angut; “but I know not all they think in the south. In this land they think,”—here a smile of good-natured pity flickered for a moment on the man’s face—“that the earth rests on pillars, which are now mouldering away by age, so that they frequently crack. These pillars would have fallen long ago if they had not been kept in repair by the angekoks, who try to prove the truth of what they say by bringing home bits of them—rotten pieces of wood. And the strange thing is, that the people believe them!”

“Why don’t you believe them, Angut?”

“I know not why.”

“And what do your kinsmen think about heaven?” asked Rooney.

“They think it is supported on the peak of a lofty mountain in the north, on which it revolves. The stars are supposed to be ancient Greenlanders, or animals which have managed in some mysterious way to mount up there, and who shine with varied brightness, according to the nature of their food. The streaming lights of winter are the souls of the dead dancing and playing ball in the sky.”

“These are strange ideas,” observed Rooney; “what have you to say about them?”

“I think they are childish thoughts,” replied the Eskimo.

“What, then, are your thoughts about these stars and streaming lights?” persisted the seaman, who was anxious to understand more of the mind of his philosophical companion.

“I know not what I think. When I try to think on these things my mind gets confused. Only this am I sure of—that they are, they must be, the wonderful works of the Good Spirit.”

“But how do you know that?” asked Rooney.

Angut looked at his questioner very earnestly for a few moments.

“How does Ridroonee know that he is alive?” he asked abruptly.

“Oh, as to that, you know, everything tells me that I am alive. I look around, and I see. I listen, and I hear. I think, and I understand—leastwise to some extent,—and I feel in mind and heart.”

“Now will I answer,” said Angut. “Everything tells me that the Great Spirit is good, and the Maker of all things. I look, and I see Him in the things that exist. I listen, and I hear Him in the whispering wind, in the running water, in the voice of man and beast. I think, and I understand Him to some extent, and I feel Him both in mind and heart.”

“I believe you are right, Angut, and your words bring strongly to my remembrance many of the words of the Great Spirit that my mother used to teach me when I was a little boy.”

From this point in the conversation Angut became the questioner, being anxious to know all that the Kablunet had to tell about the mysterious Book, of which he had spoken to him more than once, and the teachings of his mother.

It was long past midnight when the descending moon warned them to turn their steps towards the ice-cave where they had left their slumbering companions.

“The frost is sharp to-night,” remarked Rooney as they were about to enter.

Angut turned round, and cast a parting glance on sea and sky.

“If it holds on like this,” continued the sailor, “the ice will be firm enough to carry us to land in the morning.”

“It will not hold on like this,” said Angut. “The Innuit are very ignorant, but they know many things about the weather, for they are always watching it. To-morrow will be warm. We cannot escape. It will be safest and wisest to remain where we are.”

“Remaining means starving,” said the sailor in a desponding tone.

“It may be so; we cannot tell,” returned the Eskimo.

With these uncomfortable reflections, the two men entered the cavern quietly, so as not to disturb their comrades. Spreading their bearskins on the ice-floor, they laid heads on ice-pillows, and soon fell into that dreamless, restful slumber which is the usual accompaniment of youth, health, and vigour.

Chapter Twenty One.
Shows a Gloomy Prospect—Starvation threatened, and wonderfully averted

Angut was a true prophet. When Rooney awoke next morning, his ears told him that the rushing of ice-cold rivulets through ice-valleys, and the roar of ice-born cataracts had increased considerably during the hours of darkness.

The warmth which caused this did not, indeed, at first strike him, for the air of the cavern and the character of his bed had chilled him so much that he was shivering with cold. On glancing at his still sleeping comrades in misfortune, he observed that these tough creatures slept with the peaceful aspect of infants, whom, being both fat and rotund, they resembled in nearly everything except size.

Rising and going quietly out, he beat his arms vigorously across his chest until circulation was fully restored. Then he mounted a neighbouring ice-ledge, and saw at a glance that their case had become desperate.

“Angut was right,” he murmured bitterly, and then stood for a long time contemplating the scene in silence.

Considered apart from their circumstances, the scene was indeed glorious. Not only had the warmth of the air begun to swell the rivulets which leaped and brawled down the pale-green slopes around him, but the pack had opened out, so as to completely change the aspect of the sea. Instead of being clothed with ice, showing only a lane of water here and there, it was now an open sea crowded with innumerable ice-islets of every fantastic shape and size.

It added something to the bitterness of the poor man’s feelings that this state of things would, he knew, have been the very best for their escape in kayaks and oomiaks, for a profound calm prevailed, and the sea, where clear of ice, glittered in the rising sun like a shield of polished gold.

He was roused from his meditations by the sound of footsteps behind him. Turning quickly, he beheld Ippegoo holding his jaws with both hands and with an expression of unutterable woe on his face.

“Halo, Ippe, what’s wrong with you?”

A groan was the reply, and Rooney, although somewhat anxious, found it difficult to restrain a laugh.

“I’ve got—oh! oh! oh! oh!—a mad tooth,” gasped the poor youth.

“A mad tooth! Poor fellow!—we call that toothache where I come from.”

“What care I whether you call it mad tooth or tootik?” cried Ippegoo petulantly. “It is horrible! dreadful! awful!—like fire and fury in the heart.”

The sufferer used one or two more Eskimo expressions, suggestive of excruciating agony, which are not translatable into English.

“If I only had a pair of pincers, but—look, Ippe, look,” said Rooney, pointing to the sea, in the hope of distracting his mind from present pain by referring to threatening danger; “look—our kayaks being lost, we have no hope of escaping, so we must starve.”

His little device, well-meant though it was, failed. A groan and glance of indifference was the Eskimo’s reply, for starvation and danger were familiar and prospective evils, whereas toothache was a present horror.

We fear it must be told of Ippegoo that he was not celebrated for endurance of pain, and that, being fond of sympathy, he was apt to give full vent to his feelings—the result, perhaps, of having an over-indulgent mother. Toothache—one of the diseases to which Greenlanders are peculiarly liable—invariably drew forth Ippegoo’s tenderest feelings for himself, accompanied by touching lamentations.

“Come, Ippe, be more of a man. Even your mother would scold you for groaning like that.”

“But it is so shriekingly bad!” returned the afflicted youth, with increasing petulance.

“Of course it is. I know that; poor fellow! But come, I will try to cure you,” said Rooney, who, under the impression that violent physical exertion coupled with distraction of mind would produce good effect, had suddenly conceived a simple ruse. “Do you see yon jutting ice-cliff that runs down to a point near the edge of the berg?”

“Yes, I see,” whimpered Ippegoo.

“Well, it will require you to run at your top speed to get there while you count fifteen twenties. Now, if you run there within that time—at your very top speed, mind—” Rooney paused, and looked serious.

“Yes; well?” said Ippegoo, whose curiosity had already begun to check the groans.

“If you run there,” continued the seaman, with a look and tone of deep solemnity, “at the very toppest speed that you can do, and look round that ice-point, you will see—”

“What?” gasped Ippegoo excitedly—for he was easily excited.

“Something,” returned Rooney mysteriously. “I cannot tell exactly what you will see, because I am not an angekok, and have no torngak to tell me; but I am quite sure that you will see something! Only, the benefit of seeing it will depend on your running as fast as you can. Now, are you ready?”

“Yes, quite ready,” exclaimed the youth, tightening his girdle of sealskin eagerly.

“Well then—away!” shouted Rooney.

Off went Ippegoo at a pace which was obviously the best that he was capable of putting forth. Rooney counted as he ran, and in a much shorter time than had been specified he reached the point, for the level track, or what we may style sea-shore, of the berg was not a bad race-course. Suddenly, however, he came to an abrupt halt, and threw up his arms as if in amazement. Then he turned round and ran back at a pace that was even greater than he had achieved on the outward run. Rooney was himself greatly surprised at this, for, as the youth drew nearer, the expression of his face showed that he had indeed seen “something” which had not been in the seaman’s calculations. He spluttered and gasped as he came near, in his effort to speak.

“What is it?—take time, lad,” said Rooney quietly.

“A b–bear! a bear!” cried Ippegoo.

“What! did it run at you?” asked Rooney, becoming slightly excited in his turn, and keeping his eye on the ice-point.

“N–no; no. It was sitting on—on its tail—l–looking at the—the s–sea.”

“And we’ve no weapon bigger than an Eskimo knife,” exclaimed the sailor, with a frown of discontent—“not even a bit of stick to tie the knife to. What a chance lost! He would have kept us in food for some weeks. Well, well, this is bad luck. Come, Ippe, we’ll go back to the cave, and consult about this.”

On returning to the cheerless retreat, they found the rest of the party just awakening. The men were yawning and rubbing their eyes, while the women, with characteristic activity and self-denial, were gathering together the few scraps of food that remained from the previous night’s supper.

“There is a bear just round the point—so Ippe says—what’s to be done?” asked Rooney on entering.

Up jumped the four men and two boys as if they had been made of indiarubber.

“Attack it,” cried Arbalik.

“Kill it,” exclaimed Norrak.

“And eat it,” said Ermigit.

“What will you attack it with?” asked Simek in a slightly contemptuous tone—“with your fingernails? If so, you had better send Sigokow to do battle, for she could beat the three of you.”

The youths stood abashed.

“We have no spears,” said Simek, “and knives are useless. Bad luck follows us.”

“It is my opinion,” said Okiok, “that whatever we do, or try to do, we had better eat something before doing it. Bring the victuals, Nuna.”

“Okiok is right,” said Angut; “and Arbalik had better go out and watch while we consult, so as to give us timely warning if the bear comes this way.”

Without a word, Arbalik caught up a piece of blubber, and went out of the cave to enjoy his frugal breakfast while acting sentinel. The others, sitting down on their respective bearskins, ate and consulted hastily. The consultation was of little use, for they were utterly helpless, and the breakfast was not much more profitable, for there was far too little of it. Still, as Rooney truly remarked when the last morsel was consumed, it was better than nothing.

“Well now, my friends,” said Angut at last, “since our food is done, and all our talk has come to nothing, I propose that we go out in a body to see this bear. As we cannot kill him, we must get rid of him by driving him away, for if we let him remain on the berg, he will come upon us when we are asleep, perhaps, and kill us.”

“Yes, that is best,” said Okiok. “If we separate, so as to distract him, and then make a united rush from all points, shrieking, that will drive him into the sea.”

“Let us put Ippe in front,” suggested Simek, with a twinkling eye; “he yells better than any of us.”

“’Specially when he’s got the toothache,” added Rooney.

The object of this touch of pleasantry smiled in a good-humouredly imbecile manner. It was clear that his malady had been cured, at least for the time.

“But we must be very cautious,” remarked Rooney, becoming serious, as they rose to proceed on their adventure. “It would not do to let any of our party get hurt. To my thinking, the women should take to the ice-cliffs before we begin, and get upon pinnacles, up which the bear could not climb.”

While he was speaking, Arbalik came running in with the information that the bear was approaching.

“Has it seen you?” asked Angut, as they all ran out.

“I think not. From the way it walks, I think it has no suspicion of any one being on the berg.”

In a few seconds they reached the point of the promontory or cliff in which their cave lay, and each member of the party peeped round with excessive caution, and there, sure enough, they beheld a white Polar bear of truly formidable size. But it had changed its course after Arbalik saw it, for by that time it had turned up one of the ice-valleys before-mentioned and begun to ascend into the interior of the berg. The slow, heavy gait of the unwieldy animal suggested to Rooney the idea that an active man could easily get out of its way, but the cat-like activity with which it bounded over one or two rivulets that came in its way quickly dissipated that idea.

“The farther he goes up that valley,” whispered Simek, “the more trouble we shall have in driving him into the sea.”

“He does not seem to know his own mind,” remarked Okiok, as the bear again changed his course, and entered one of the small gorges that opened into the larger valley.

“He knows it well enough,” said Ermigit. “Don’t you see he is making for the ice-top, where these gulls are sitting? The fool expects to catch them asleep.”

Ermigit seemed to have guessed rightly, for after clambering up the ice-gorge referred to until he gained a high ledge or plateau, he began regularly to stalk the birds with the sly patience of a cat.

There was much in the bear’s favour, for the recent fall of a pinnacle had covered the ledge with shattered blocks of all shapes and sizes, in the shelter of which it could creep towards its prey. Our Eskimos watched the proceeding open-mouthed, with profound interest. To within twenty yards or so of its game did that white-robed Arctic hunter approach. Then it crouched for a rush at the unconscious birds, for no other lump of ice lay between them and their foe.

The charge was vigorously made, almost too vigorously, for when the birds flew lightly off the ledge, and descended to a narrower one a little farther down, it was all the bear could do to check itself on the very edge of the precipice. If it had gone over, the consequences would have been dire, for the precipice was, not sheer, but still a very steep slope of ice, several hundred feet deep, which terminated in those rugged masses on the berg-shore that had fallen from the cliffs above. There was only one break in the vast slope, namely, the narrow ledge half-way down on which the birds had taken refuge.