Steve slept soundly that night, and woke to find the blanket, pulled up close to his ears, stiff with hoar-frost, and the stinging, prickling sensation in his nostrils more acute than ever.  There was no time spent in dressing, and all were soon ready for the breakfast brought in by the cook, who was loud in complaints about the way in which everything froze in the galley, even when the fire was roaring in the stove.  But he was pretty cheerful, for he was a busy man with certain daily duties, whereas tasks had to be made for the men, who, on account of the intense cold and the solitary safety of their position, were not now even set to keep any of the regular watches.

As soon as breakfast was despatched by lamplight, a start was made to see if the bear was anywhere near; and as the canvas door was opened with some difficulty, they stepped out into the semi-darkness to make for the other side of the vessel, about a hundred yards from which a hummock could be seen lying through the rising mist; and upon their approaching it the footsteps of the bear could be plainly traced in company with spots of blood, showing that the animal must have been seriously wounded.

“He staggered and went down here,” said Johannes, pointing to unmistakable marks; and then, as the back of the animal stood up white as the snow around, Johannes began to trot forward.

“Don’t do that!” cried Steve excitedly.  “Let them go first with the guns.”

“No fear, sir; he’s frozen stiff.”

So it proved, but a horrifying sight presented itself; for there were footprints about, which the Norseman pointed out as belonging to three more bears, a large and two small ones, which had been devouring the one that had been shot, and now lay, partially eaten, in the snow.

“Ugh! the cannibals!” exclaimed Steve, turning away in disgust.

“Will they come back to the feast?” said the doctor.  “They may, sir; but I think not.  They have gorged themselves, and will have gone back to the cave they occupy, perhaps to go to sleep for a couple of months.  I think they lie up during the very coldest weather, and I should say it was cold enough for that.  Besides, this carcass is a mass of ice now. ­ It is very cold.”

“Yes, and dark enough for anything.”  But as the days ­they could hardly be called days ­glided by the last gleams of a dim twilight died out, till in the clearest times there was nothing but a faint dawn to be seen at twelve o’clock, where they had seen the rim of the sun for the last time, and the cold was intense, beyond anything they could have imagined.  When the men were crowded together in the forecastle their breath rose in a thick mist, and Watty murmured bitterly to Steve about it, for he said it was a shame that the deck was not freshly cleaned.

“A’ through snaw-storm last neet,” he said, “the snaw came tumm’ling doon upo’ our bets till she was a’ wet.”

“But there was no snowstorm last night, Watty.”

“Why, she saw it wi’ her ain een.”

“It was only the frozen breath,” said Steve, as he recalled his experience on the deck the night the bear was shot.

“Ah, weel, she dinna ken.  Maybe she’s richt; but the cauld is chust awfu’.  Tid she ken the McByle burnt her foots last nicht?”

“What, Andra?  No.”

“Oh ay, she tid.  She was sitting by the fire trying to blaw the ice oot o’ the pipes, for she couldna ket the pipes to skirl.  She was sitting leuking on, when she smelt something oot.  Chacobsen she says, `She’ll hae to mind, Andra, for she’s purning her foots’; and Andra she says tat Chacobsen should keep her chokes to hersel when she’s pusy wi’ the pipes; and chust then Chohannes lays holt upo’ her py the shouthers an’ pu’s her ower, and shows her the toes wass purning, and she tidn’t know.”

“Is this true, Watty?”

“She can chust co and leuk the chief’s foots an’ see.  Why, the tins o’ meat all coom oot lumps o’ ice, and the soup freezes in the galley where the fire’s purning.  She niver knew it could pe sae caud, or she’d ha’ stoppit at hame.”

Watty was quite right, for the cold struck in everywhere; and if it had not been for the great fire kept going in the engine furnace, the ship would have been unbearable.  For the cold produced so utter an insensibility in the extremities that the doctor had to keep a very watchful eye over the men, several of whom were slightly frost-bitten.

But he was well backed up by the four Norwegians, who had learned in their own severe winters something of the power of the frost; and hence it was that, when the darkness set in entirely for their four months’ night, all were still in excellent health.

“Help me, Steve, in every way you can, my lad.  Let’s keep the men’s spirits up till the twenty-first of December.”

“You mean till the end of March,” said Steve gloomily.

“No, my lad; as I said, till the twenty-first of December.  Only get that day past, and I can say to the men, `the sun is on its way back; patience, and we shall once more have the light.’”

“What shall I do to help you?”

“First of all, cast off that despondent way, my lad, and set others an example.  You, I, and Mr Handscombe can’t afford to be low-spirited.  There:  be yourself, cheery and bright.  I’m ready to encourage you in starting games or sports.  Anything to keep the men in a cheerful state.”

Steve tried, but in spite of moon and star-shine, more brilliant than any present had ever seen before, abundant food, long walks for exercise whenever the weather would permit, and, above all, encouragement to sleep as long as they felt disposed, there was a peculiar depression steadily creeping over the men with which it grew harder and harder to battle.

At first they were merry and cheery enough in the glow of the fire, they sang all the songs they knew, and joined in chorus; the fiddle was heard going, and often enough the tune kept time with the beating of feet, as the men tried the steps of some hornpipes.  And on other nights Andrew’s pipes made most dismal sounds, to the great delight of the Scots; but after the mishap to one of his feet, a burn which refused to heal, “ta pipes” found no more favour in the Highlander’s eyes, and he grew low-spirited and irritable to a degree that made him snatch the pipes one day from Watty, who had taken them down “to hae a blaw,” as he called it, and strike him across the head with the big drone.

Johannes was taken into consultation in the cabin, where they were in pretty good spirits, Steve being occupied in helping the doctor and captain in keeping the log, and noting down the observations they made with the instruments and on the weather; but the Norseman shook his head.

“I’m trying all I know, sir,” he said; “but it’s a hard task.  I’m only an unlearned man, and do not understand these things well; but it seems to me, sir, that nothing was ever meant to live up here in the coldest time.  The birds have gone south, we have not seen the track of deer or wolf for a month, and it is six weeks now since we have seen the footprint of a bear.  It is nature’s long, dark, cold night, sir, where nothing is meant to live.”

“Humph!” said the captain shortly; “and so you are going to give in too, and turn coward, eh?”

“No, sir,” said the Norseman firmly; “and you know that I do not deserve those words.  Jakobsen and our two Nordoe brothers have done all they can to keep up the men’s spirits, and we shall do this, whether we live or die, to the end.”

“Of course you will, Johannes,” said Steve warmly, as he was aware of a peculiar sensation in his eyes; and then felt brighter than he had for days, for the captain made a quick movement and snatched off the thick fur glove he was obliged to wear in the heated cabin, even while he wrote, for the ink still froze at a short distance from the fire.

Captain Marsham’s movement was to hold out his hand to the Norseman, and have it seized in a grip of iron.

“I beg your pardon, Johannes,” he said.  “My words were unjust.”

“Say no more, sir,” said the man, smiling.  “You are the captain, and have a right to speak words to bring your men up to their work.”

“But they are not needed with you, my lad,” said the captain warmly.  “But the others, what can we do to stir them out of this depressed state?”

“Work them, sir.  We want some great thing to draw them out of thinking about themselves.  Walks and ordinary work depress them.  We want some great call made upon them for their help.”

“Yes; and how can that call be made?”

Johannes shook his head.  The suggestion was excellent, but it seemed to be impossible to carry out; for it was madness to attempt toilsome expeditions over the ice when at any hour they were liable to be overtaken by one of the terrible, blinding snowstorms of which they had had several examples since the darkness had set in; so after much consideration Captain Marsham came to the conclusion that it was hard enough work to preserve existence with the ship as a place of refuge, always within touch, without running risks which might prove fatal to the whole party.

“You are quite right,” said the doctor, who had remained silent.  “I do not doubt our power to make long expeditions, but they would always be terribly risky; and unless there was some object in view that warranted the work, I should not venture.”

“You mean that?” said the captain.

“I do.  If a man gets frost-bitten anywhere within range, we can bring him back, and soon take proper steps to save the injured limb or part.  On the other hand, suppose we are overtaken by a storm and darkness, and forced to shelter somewhere under the lee of the rocks or ice, how many of us would be able to reach the ship after the storm was over?  No; I see nothing for us to do but take what exercise we can in the moonlight, and then come back to our quarters, which we must make as snug as we can.”

“And be thankful that we have such quarters,” said the captain.  “What do you say, Steve?”

The lad started at this first appeal, but spoke out.

“I should like to try and search again for the crew of the Ice Blink, sir,” he said.

“What could we do better than we have done, my boy?  We could not reach the parts that we journeyed over in the summer, that is certain, and to do any good we ought to go farther.  No, my lad, we must wait.”