they found themselves in a most perilous position, for an ice-quake had occurred.
As soon as it was daylight a very different aspect presented itself to their eyes. The vast plain, a compact mass the evening before, was now separated in a thousand places, and the waves, raised by some submarine commotion, had broken the thick layer which sheltered them.
The thought of his ship occurred to Jean Cornbutte’s mind.
“My poor brig!” he cried. “It must have perished!”
The deepest despair began to overcast the faces of his companions. The loss of the ship inevitably preceded their own deaths.
“Courage, friends,” said Penellan. “Reflect that this night’s disaster has opened us a path across the ice, which will enable us to bring our ship to the bay for wintering! And, stop! I am not mistaken. There is the ‘Jeune-Hardie,’ a mile nearer to us!”
All hurried forward, and so imprudently, that Turquiette slipped into a fissure, and would have certainly perished, had not Jean Cornbutte seized him by his hood. He got off with a rather cold bath.
The brig was indeed floating two miles away. After infinite trouble, the little band reached her. She was in good condition; but her rudder, which they had neglected to lift, had been broken by the ice.