The
fire went out yesterday, and our captain has since tried to light
it again. His wife died this morning. There is no more hope."
I pondered over these words for some time, trying to realize their
sad meaning.
"There is no more hope!"
How long since had that sentence been written? How long had the ice
imprisoned this vessel in its cold, hard grip?
I turned back a few pages in search of some recorded date, and
found this entry:
"New Year's Day, 1831:--The ice still closing in on us. Opened last
bag of biscuits. Murray died this morning."
So long ago! the year 1831! and now it was the year 1844! The ship,
then, had been lost for thirteen years!
I turned the light upon the man crouching over the stove. His
features, like those of his companion, were covered with green
mould, and his beard was fringed with the same grim mildew.
Taking my lantern I went through into the stateroom, and there I
found the body of a woman laid upon a bed. Her features were still
fresh and lifelike, but her black hair was powdered with the damp
green growth. Before her a young man was seated on the floor,
holding a flint in one hand and a steel in the other. A few sticks
of hard wood were piled up in front of him. I could but surmise
that these were the captain and his wife.
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