Not a living being had survived the storm.
As I walked upon the blood-red snow, every foot-fall brought forth most piteous sighs and groans.
“What dread warning,” thought I, “does this mysterious murmuring give me? What is the meaning of these sobs and moans which issue from these crimson crystals beneath the pressure of my feet? Am I walking upon the blood of my ancestors?”
Clinging to the frozen sheets, I crept slowly along the red-encrusted deck.
But stay!
Hark!
Are my ears playing me still more fantastic tricks?
No! I’m wholly and entirely myself now, and as sure as the blood of the Trumps’ courses through my veins, that bark came from my faithful dog!
“Bulger lives! Bulger lives!” I cried out in accents of the wildest joy; and breaking away from the hold of fear and trepidation, I rushed boldly forward, calling out “I’m coming, Bulger, I’m coming!” With reckless courage I sprang from one frozen plank to another, until I stood upon the quarter-deck. There, upon the hatch, sat, or rather lay, Bulger, for his life was almost extinct. His teeth were locked upon the straps of a life-preserver which he, ever thoughtful of my safety, was about to bring to me at the first outbreak of the storm, when its fury forced him to seek refuge under a water-cask, as his tracks on the snow indicated.
As quickly as my stiffened limbs would permit, I bounded forward, and throwing myself on my knees, in the crimson snow,—which sent forth most heart-rending groans and sighs at the pressure of my body upon its blood-red surface—I clasped Bulger in my arms and our cries of joy mingled,—our tears ran together.