“Thirty-two degrees below zero!”
“Ten degrees more,” said Vasling, “and the mercury will freeze!”
A mournful silence followed this remark.
About eight in the morning Penellan essayed a second time to go out to judge of their situation. It was necessary to give an escape to the smoke, which the wind had several times repelled into the hut. The sailor wrapped his cloak tightly about him, made sure of his hood by fastening it to his head with a handkerchief, and raised the canvas.
The opening was entirely obstructed by a resisting snow. Penellan took his staff, and succeeded in plunging it into the compact mass; but terror froze his blood when he perceived that the end of the staff was not free, and was checked by a hard body!
“Cornbutte,” said he to the captain, who had come up to him, “we are buried under this snow!”
“What say you?” cried Jean Cornbutte.
“I say that the snow is massed and frozen around us and over us, and that we are buried alive!”