“That is no reason,” said André Vasling. “In these high latitudes and cold regions sounds may be heard to a great distance.”
“However that may be,” replied Jean Cornbutte, “let us go forward, or we shall be frozen.”
“No!” cried Penellan. “Listen!”
Some feeble sounds—quite perceptible, however—were heard. They seemed to be cries of distress. They were twice repeated. They seemed like cries for help. Then all became silent again.
“I was not mistaken,” said Penellan. “Forward!”
He began to run in the direction whence the cries had proceeded. He went thus two miles, when, to his utter stupefaction, he saw a man lying on the ice. He went up to him, raised him, and lifted his arms to heaven in despair.
André Vasling, who was following close behind with the rest of the sailors, ran up and cried,—
“It is one of the castaways! It is our sailor Courtois!”
“He is dead!” replied Penellan. “Frozen to death!”
Jean Cornbutte and Marie came up beside the corpse, which was already stiffened by the ice. Despair was written on every face. The dead man was one of the comrades of Louis Cornbutte!