"Nine or ten," said Stirling, rubbing his eyes with the back of his right hand and turning toward her. "There is nothing else to do," he added. "We can save the ship that way. The Pole Star belongs to you—now."
A flush swept over her cheeks, and she reached up her mittened hands, brushing her hair back from her ears. "Let the Russian steer," she suggested. "Let him steer and you and I can talk by the rail."
Stirling noted the course, then called forward. Ivan turned and hurried aft, coming over the break of the quarter-deck with his hand on his cap.
"Steady, as she is," said Stirling, releasing the spokes. "Watch for lights ashore. Upernivik—you understand?"
The Russian nodded. Helen Marr and the Ice Pilot moved aft and stood by the taffrail as the ship glided on with its jib boom parallel to the sombre Greenland shore.
The girl turned her face away from Stirling's and looked over the taffrail where the silver phosphorescence of the wake was broken in countless places by the reaching waves. The moon had emerged from the clouds, and it scudded along as if driven by silver sails, its rays illuminating the quarter-deck.
Stirling felt strangely troubled in the presence of the silent girl. He stepped back a foot, then came forward with the roll of the ship, as her hand reached out and rested upon the taffrail.
Through the citadel the Pole Star glided under half steam. A faint roar of running waters came from the shore, and there was the echoing of waves on the shelving beaches. The headland toward which the ship steered was rounded, and beyond, like a jewel in a locket, glistened a sapphire light.
"Upernivik!" said Stirling.
The girl nodded her head, turning away from the land and staring at the surface of Baffin Bay. Then her eyes fastened upon Stirling's and in them he read the secret of her silence. He flushed and raised his hand to his smooth-shaven chin, then lowered it and reached forward timidly.