“Forward!” cried Penellan.
They went on for half an hour in perfect silence, and perceived an elevation which seemed without doubt to be land.
“It is Shannon Island,” said Jean Cornbutte.
A mile farther on they distinctly perceived smoke escaping from a snow-hut, closed by a wooden door. They shouted. Two men rushed out of the hut, and Penellan recognized one of them as Pierre Nouquet.
“Pierre!” he cried.
Pierre stood still as if stunned, and unconscious of what was going on around him. André Vasling looked at Pierre Nouquet’s companion with anxiety mingled with a cruel joy, for he did not recognize Louis Cornbutte in him.
“Pierre! it is I!” cried Penellan. “These are all your friends!”
Pierre Nouquet recovered his senses, and fell into his old comrade’s arms.
“And my son—and Louis!” cried Jean Cornbutte, in an accent of the most profound despair.