“Yes, when the mist’s off it,” said the doctor.
“And it is not quite off that mountain.”
“Yes, quite off. That smoke you are looking at is from a volcano.”
“And shall we land and explore it?”
“I hope so.”
“When?”
“That depends on the captain. I hope to spend a few good days there.”
“And do you think they are here?”
“Impossible to say yet,” said the doctor. “If our friends have taken refuge here, it will be on this southern shore, where they could get most sunshine; but I can see no signal flying, no sign of a wreck. But there, I daresay Captain Marsham will run close in for us to explore.”
By this time the mist had been driven back so far that they saw, opening before them, white and glistening in the sunshine like a band of silver stretching beyond the floe, the ice of the polar ocean. It was miles away to north, to east, and west, and apparently only a few feet above the sea, that, strain their eyes as they would, there was always the floe offering itself as a barrier to stay further progress in that direction.