She watched until the cloth of blue had been almost completely changed to one of white, then burst into the cabin.
To her unbounded surprise, she found her companions sitting on Lucile’s berth with wrapt attention staring out of the window.
“Isn’t it wonderful!” whispered Lucile.
“I—I thought it would be terribly dangerous,” said Florence.
“Not now,” said Marian. “It may be if we come to shore and the wind crowds the ice, but even then we’ll be safe enough. We can escape over the ice to shore. Only,” she added thoughtfully, “in that case the O Moo will be crushed. And that would be too sad after she has carried us through the storm so bravely.”
Florence still looked puzzled.
“You see,” smiled Marian, “Lucile and I have been in the ice-packs on the Arctic, so we know. Don’t we, old dear?” She patted Lucile on the shoulder.
“Uh—huh,” smiled Lucile as she settled back on her pillow.
Ice, as Marian had said, is quite a safe convoy of the sea until some shore is reached.
For twenty-four hours they drifted in the midst of the floe. Now a sea gull came soaring and screaming about the yacht. And now he went skimming away, leaving them to the vast silence of the conquered waters. Fog hung low over the water and the ice. No long-drawn hoot of a fog horn, no shrill siren’s scream greeted their anxious ears. A great silence hung over all.