"He is a foreigner, an', bedad, ne'er a foreigner belonged to Mr. Ranworth's party. They were British to a man, not excepting the few that belonged to Ould Oireland."
Guy, having seen his patient warmly wrapped up, went to Ranworth, who was at the steering-wheel.
"One of those men is a foreigner, sir," he reported.
"Never!" ejaculated Ranworth, incredulously; then he added: "It's a rotten business if he is. Here, Guy, take the wheel a few minutes. Shout if you want me."
Leaving Guy in charge of the helm, Ranworth approached the rescued man.
"Feeling better?" he asked.
The patient shook his head and replied in a guttural and unintelligible language. It bore no resemblance to English. It certainly was not German, which Ranworth knew fairly well.
"Dansk? Norge? Sverige? Russe?" inquired Ranworth, naming the northern kingdoms of Europe.
"Yes, I am a Russian," replied the man, speaking in excellent French. "My name is Ivan Petrovitch, and I am a captain in the Imperial Guard. My companion there is Dmitri Rapoulin, of the Moscow University. To whom are we indebted for saving our lives?"
"Members of the Ranworth Relief Expedition," was the reply. "You have possibly fallen in with the Polar Exploration party under the direction of my brother, Claude Ranworth?"