There is a cord of fear in every man's heart which throbs more or less responsively to the relation of the wonders of that "debatable land," which, by some, is believed to lie "on the boundaries of another world." La Salle felt impressed in spite of himself, and the whole party seemed grave and unwilling to pursue the subject. The silence was, however, broken by Kennedy.
"I am going home to-morrow," said he, "and therefore am not likely to be one of the unfortunates over whom a mysterious but melancholy fate impends. I have never found in the Tribune anything calculated to encourage a belief in ghosts of men, or vessels either; and what Horace Greeley can't swallow I can't. But I shall make minutes of this little matter, and if anything does happen, will forward a full account, in detail, to that truly great man. Come, La Salle; it's time we were abed. Good night, gentlemen."
CHAPTER V.
A MAD SPORTSMAN.—SNOW-BLIND.—A NIGHT OF PERIL.
The next morning shone bright and clear, and the gunners were at their posts in expectation of a good day's sport. They looked in vain, however, for any indications of open water, and a hole, sunk with the axe to the depth of eighteen inches, failed to reach salt water, although several layers of sweet, fresh water were struck; and the little hollow furnished them many draughts of an element nowhere more welcome than upon the spring ice. The sun shone brightly, their faces, still sore and feverish with yesterday's exposure, became sorer than ever, and the neck became chafed wherever it rubbed against the coat collar.