“That he does!” replied the inferior officer.
The Polar Star sailed away from Peterhead on the very day that poor Ted Wilson was laid in his grave beneath the eternal snows of Alba. Could Silas have seen the desperate position of the Arrandoon just then, how little hopes he would have entertained of ever reaching her in time to save the precious lives on board!
The doctor was left alone in the saloon of the great ship.
The silence that reigned both fore and aft was oppressive even to dismalness.
For a moment or two Sandy buried his face in his hands, and tears welled through his fingers. “Oh,” he whispered, “it is terrible! The silence of death is all about us! Our men dying forward, our captain doomed, and Allan and Rory. Ay, and poor Ralph will be next; I can see that in his face. Not one of us can ever reach his native land again! I envy—yes, I envy the dead in their quiet graves, and even wish it were all past—all, all over?”
“Doctor!” a kindly hand was laid on his shoulder. Sandy started to his feet, he cared not who saw his face, wet though it was with tears. “Doctor, don’t you take on so,” said Stevenson.
“Speak, man I speak quick! There is hope in your face!” cried the doctor.
“There is hope in my heart, too,” said the mate—“only a glint, only a gleam; but it is there. The frost is gone; the ice is open again.”
“Then quick,” cried the surgeon, “get up steam! that alone can save the dying. Energy, energy, and something to do. I can do nothing more to save my patients while this hopeless silence lies pall-like around us. Break it, dear mate, with the roar of steam and the rattle of the engine’s screw!”