"And we'll tak' a richt good-willy waught
For auld lang syne."
He burst out laughing. "Indeed, indeed! there is no wonder I laugh," he
said; "fancy the notion of taking a `good-willy waught' in a place like
this! And now," he added, "for a bit of a sketch."
"Don't be long in nibbing it in, then."
Rory was seated on a boulder now, tracing on his page the outlines of
those strange, weird pillars that hands of man had never raised nor
human eyes gazed upon before. So the silence once more became irksome,
and the time seemed long to Ralph, but Rory had finished at last.
Then the two companions, after journeying on somewhat farther, began to
awaken the echoes by various shouts; and voices, some coming from a long
distance, repeated clearly the last words.
"Let us frighten those ghouls down there by rolling down boulders," said
Rory.
"Come on, then," said Ralph; "I've often played at that game."
They had ten minutes of this work. It was evident this hill within a
hill, this crater's point, was of depth illimitable from the distant
hissing noises which the broken boulders finally emitted.
"It's a regular whispering gallery," said Rory.
"It is, Row. But do let us get back. See, there is already barely
light enough to reveal our footsteps."
"Ah! but, my boy," said Rory, "the nearer the car we walk the more light
we'll have. And I have just one more surprise for you. You see this
little bag?"
"Yes. What is in it--sandwiches?"
"Nay, my Saxon friend! but Bengal fires. Now witness the effects of the
grand illumination of the Cave of the King of Ice by us, his two ghouls
of a thousand winters!"
The scene, under weird blue lights, pale green or crimson, was really
magical. All the transformation scenes ever they had witnessed dwindled
into insignificance compared to it.
"I shall remember this to my dying day?" Rory exclaimed.
"And I too!" cried Ralph, entranced.
"Now the finale?" said the artist; "it'll beat all the others! This
white light of mine will eclipse the glory of the rest as the morning
sun does that of moonlight! It will burn quite a long time, too; I made
it last night on purpose."
It was a Bengal fire of dazzling splendour that now was lit, and our
heroes themselves were astonished.
"It beats the `Arabian Nights'!" cried Rory. "Look, look!" he
continued, waving it gently to and fro, "the stalactites seem to dance
and move towards us from out the gloom arrayed in robes of transplendent
white. Yonder comes the King of Ice himself to bid us welcome."
"Put it out! put it out!" murmured Ralph, with his hand on his brow.
It presently burned out, but lo! the change!--total darkness!
_Rory and Ralph were snowblind_!
"Oh, boy Rory!" said Ralph, "that brilliant of yours has sealed our
fate. It will be hours ere our eyes can be restored, and long before
then the darkness of night will have enshrouded us. We are lost!"
"Let us not lose each other, at all events," said Rory, feeling for his
friend's arm, and linking it in his own.
"You think we are lost; dear Ralph, I have more hopes. Something within
me tells me that we were never meant to end our days in the awful
darkness of this terrible cavern. Pass the night here it is certain we
must, but to-morrow will bring daylight, and daylight safety, for be
assured Allan and De Vere will not leave us, unless--"
Here the hope-giver paused.
"Unless," added Ralph--"for I know what you would say--an accident
should be imminent--unless they _must_ leave. A balloon needs strange
management."
"Even then they will return to seek us by morning light. Do you know
what, Ray?" he continued, "our adventures have been too foolhardy.
Providence has punished us, but He will not utterly desert us."
"Hope springs eternal in the human breast."
The lamp of hope was flickering--had, indeed, burned out--in Ralph's
heart, but his friend's words rekindled it. Perhaps Rory's true
character never shone more clearly out than it did now, for, while
trying to cheer his more than friend, he fully appreciated the
desperateness of the situation, and had but little hope left in him,
except his extreme trust in the goodness of a higher Power.
"Could we not," said Ralph, "all snowblind as we are, try to grope our
way upwards?"
"No, no, no!" cried Rory; "success in that way is all but impossible;
and, remember, we have but the trail of our footprints to guide us even
by day."
Something of the ludicrous invariably mixes itself up with the most
tragic affairs of this world. I have seen the truth of this in the
chamber of death itself, in storms at sea, and in scenes where men
grappled each other in deadly strife. And it is well it should be so,
else would the troubles of this world oftentimes swamp reason itself.
The attempts of Rory to keep his companion in cheer, partook of the
nature of the ludicrous, as did the attempts of both of them to keep
warm.
So hours elapsed, and sometimes sitting, sometimes standing and beating
feet and hands for circulation's sake, and doing much talking, but never
daring to leave the spot, at last says Rory, "Hullo, Ray! joy of joys!
I've found a lucifer!"
Almost at the same moment he lit it. They could see each other's
faces--see a watch, and notice it was nearly midnight. They had
regained sight! Joy and hope were at once restored.
"Troth!" said Rory, resuming his brogue, "it's myself could be a baby
for once and cry. Now what do ye say to try to sleep? We'll lie close
together, you know, and it's warm we'll be in a jiffey?"
So down they lay, and, after ten long shivering minutes, heat came back
to their frozen bodies. They had not been talking all this time; it is
but right to say they were better engaged.
With warmth came _le gaiete_--to Rory, at least.
"Have you wound your watch, Ray?"
"No, Row? and I wouldn't move for the world!"
After a pause, "Ray," says Row.
"Yes, Row?" says Ray.
"You always said you liked a big bed-room, Ray, and, troth, you've got
one for once!"
"How I envy you your spirits," answers Ray.
"Don't talk about spirits," says Row, "and frighten a poor boy. I've
covered up my head, and I wouldn't look up for the world. I'm going to
repeat myself to sleep. Good night."
"Good night," asks Ray, "but how do you do it?"
"Psalms, Ray," Row replies. "I know them all. I'll be out of here in a
moment.
"`He makes me down to lie by pastures green,
He leadeth me the quiet waters by.'
"Isn't that pretty, Ray?"
"Very, Row, but `pastures green' and `quiet waters' aren't much in my
way. Repeat _me_ to sleep, Rory boy, and I promise you I won't pull
your ears again for a month."
"Well, I'll try," says Row. "Are your eyes shut?"
"To be sure. A likely thing I'd have them open, isn't it?"
"Then we're both going to a ball in old England."
"Glorious," says Ray. "I'm there already."
Then in slow, monotonous, but pleasing tones, Row goes on. He describes
the brilliant festive scene, the warmth, the light, the beauty and the
music, and the dances, and last but not least the supper table. It is
at this point that our Saxon hero gives sundry nasal indications that
this strange species of mesmerism had taken due effect, so Row leaves
him at the supper table, and goes back to his "pastures green" and
"quiet waters," and soon they both are sound enough. Let us leave them
there; no need to watch them. Remember what Lover says in his beautiful
song,--
"O! watch ye well by daylight,
For angels watch at night."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poor McBain! Worn out with watching, he had sunk at last to sleep in
his chair.
And day broke slowly on the sea of ice. The snow-clad crater's peak was
the first to welcome glorious aurora with a rosy blush, which stole
gradually downwards till it settled on the jagged mountain tips. Then
bears began to yawn and stretch themselves, the sly Arctic foxes crept
forth from snow-banks, and birds in their thousands--brightest of all
the snowbird--came wheeling around the _Arrandoon_ to snatch an early
breakfast ere they wended their way westward to fields of blood and
phocal carnage.
And their screaming awoke McBain.
He was speedily on deck.
Yonder was the _Perseverando_ slowly descending.
During all the long cruise of the _Arrandoon_ nobody referred to the
adventure at the crater of Jan Mayen without a feeling akin to sadness
and contrition, for all felt that something had been done which ought
not to have been done--there had been, as McBain called it, "a tempting
of Providence."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Well, well, well," cried the skipper of the _Canny Scotia_--and he
seemed to be in anything but a sweet temper. "Just like my luck. I do
declare, mate, if I'd been born a hatter everybody else would have been
born without heads. Here have I been struggling away for years against
fortune, always trying to get a good voyage to support a small wife and
a big family, and now that luck seems to have all turned in our favour,
two glorious patches of seals on the ice yonder, a hard frost, and the
ice beautifully red with blood, and no ship near us, then you, mate,
come down from the crow's-nest with that confoundedly long face of
yours, for which you ought to have been smothered at birth--"
"I can't help my face, sir," cried the mate, bristling up like a bantam
cock.
"Silence!" roared the burly skipper. "Silence! when you talk to your
captain. You, I say, _you_ come and report a big steamer in sight to
help us at the banquet."
The mate scratched his head, taking his hat off for the purpose.
"Did I make the ship?" he asked with naive innocence.
"Pooh!" the skipper cried; and next moment he was scrambling up the
rigging with all the elegance, grace, and speed of a mud turtle.
He was in a better humour when he returned.
"I say, matie," he said, "yonder chap ain't a sealer; too dandy, and not
boats enough. No, she is one of they spectioneering kind o' chaps as
goes a prowling around lookin' for the North Pole. Ha! ha! ha! Come
below, matie, and we'll have a glass together. She ain't the kind o'
lady to interfere with our blubber-hunting."
The mate was mollified. His face was soaped, and he shone.