They spent that day on shore quietly, and very pleasurably. They sought for no wild adventures, they sought but to saunter about and enjoy the beauties of the landscape; it would be the last ever they would spend in that lovely land, and they meant to leave it in peace. They would neither draw a bead upon a bird, nor fire at a bear, nor lure a fish from the river.
It was not without a certain feeling of sadness they embarked at last, when the day was far spent; and the same feeling stole over them when, next day, they got the anchor up and slowly sailed away a-down the bay with the jibboom pointing east and by north. By mid-day they were opposite the spot where they had anchored all the winter. The new hall which Ap had been so proud of constructing still stood there in all its pristine beauty and pride.
“It does seem a pity,” said Ap, “to leave it to the Indians.”
“Ah! but,” said McBain, who had overheard him, “it would be a greater pity to land and burn it, wouldn’t it, Ap?”
“Yes, look, you see,” was Ap’s reply, his eyes still fondly resting on the building, “I wouldn’t think of that for a moment. Better the Indians than that. Yes, yes.”
When the sun set that day the land was far away on the lee quarter; by morning it had entirely disappeared, and all the adventures they had enjoyed on shore seemed to our heroes like one long wild romantic dream. Ere the second day had come to a close every one on board had quite settled down again to the old yachting roving life, at once so jolly and so free. Watches were kept as before, the dinner-hour was changed to an earlier one, as it usually is at sea and a regular lookout was kept at the bows, as well as a man at the mast-head in the crow’s-nest.
There was need for this, too, for the ice they soon found themselves among was both heavy and dangerous. On this account the Snowbird’s head was changed a few points nearer to the west, and very soon afterwards the sea became more open and clear.
A goodly ten-knot breeze blew steadily for days from the east, and carried them well over to the land that bounds the opposite shores of the Hudson Bay, and the course had once more to be changed for a northerly one, to seek for the straits, and the icebergs again towered around, mountains high, great gomerils of snow, that at times took the wind quite out of their sails. This passage through the straits was at once exciting and dangerous, and for three whole days and nights McBain never slept, and very seldom did he sit more than a few minutes at table.
But open water came at last, and they would probably see no more of the ice until they rounded Cape Farewell, and neared the shores of Iceland. But something had to be done long before then. It must not be forgotten that on the far northern coast of Labrador, in a wild and mountainous lonely land, was the home of honest but eccentric old trapper Seth. McBain had promised to take him back, and a sailor’s promise is, or ought to be at all events, a sacred thing. McBain’s was.
“But, for all that,” said McBain, addressing Seth, “we shall be unfeignedly sorry to part with you; we would far rather you came home with us, and took up your abode at Arrandoon. We’d find you something to do, something to shoot at times, though nothing to compare with the glorious sport we’ve enjoyed in your society.”