The first glimpse of the haze-surrounded sun, which rose over the Bering Sea, was the magnet that drew Stirling away from his thoughts of the girl and to the open porthole. The sea was specked and laced with drift ice and whale slick. Old "grandpas" floated by—grimy and honeycombed from the action of the brine. Walruses and seals dived from these ancient ice clusters. Birds wheeled away from the course of the fast-driving poacher.
The course had been changed overnight, this Stirling detected with a guilty start as he noted the position of the sun. They were now well within the Gulf of Anadir, and the ice which floated about had just been detached from the shore. Its surface was partly snow.
Seven bells brought the first glimpse of land to Stirling. A dark promontory lifted into the Arctic sky, and this was crowned with a hedge of Northern pines. Green moss grew down the folds of the headland. A tundra stuck out from the lower silt. They were skirting the wild coast of Anadir.
"Siberia," said Stirling. "What a land!" He turned from the porthole and studied the interior of the cabin. The little revolver which the girl had given to him was still within the grip of his garter. He reached downward and loosened it, examining its butt and silver-plated barrel. It was loaded.
He eyed the door leading to the alleyway, and pocketed the revolver as steps sounded outside.
Whitehouse shouted in through the keyhole: "Hold steady and wait, old man. I'll see that you're well fed by eight bells. No 'ard feelings, eh?"
Stirling did not answer. He moved about, however, and otherwise let the mate know that he was still aboard the ship.
Eight bells did not bring the promised food. Instead, the ship slowed down, and at last glided across the sea with her screw still.
The sound of running feet came to Stirling who sprang to the porthole and glanced out. They were rounding a rocky wall whose fissures gushed white from descending torrents of snow water. The ship ported, steadied in slow circling, and entered a mountain-encompassed harbour as lovely and as lonely as any in all the world.
Her taper yards scraped the stones to starboard and port, her keel once touched a sandy split, but she went on by the billowed pressure of the wind on the canvas. The way opened to a glen in solid granite and schist, and here the anchor chain was let go with a rusty clank. The stern swung, almost touching a narrow shelf, up from which an agile man could climb, or down to which he might lower himself.