Amos Green was aroused in the morning by a hand upon his shoulder, and springing to his feet, found De Catinat standing beside him. The survivors of the crew were grouped about the upturned boat, slumbering heavily after their labours of the night. The red rim of the sun had just pushed itself above the water-line, and sky and sea were one blaze of scarlet and orange from the dazzling gold of the horizon to the lightest pink at the zenith. The first rays flashed directly into their cave, sparkling and glimmering upon the ice crystals and tingeing the whole grotto with a rich warm light. Never was a fairy’s palace more lovely than this floating refuge which Nature had provided for them.

But neither the American nor the Frenchman had time now to give a thought to the novelty and beauty of their situation. The latter’s face was grave, and his friend read danger in his eyes.

“What is it, then?”

“The berg. It is coming to pieces.”

“Tut, man, it is as solid as an island.”

“I have been watching it. You see that crack which extends backwards from the end of our grotto. Two hours ago I could scarce put my hand into it. Now I can slip through it with ease. I tell you that she is splitting across.”

Amos Green walked to the end of the funnel-shaped recess and found, as his friend had said, that a green sinuous crack extended away backwards into the iceberg, caused either by the tossing of the waves, or by the terrific impact of their vessel. He roused Captain Ephraim and pointed out the danger to him.

“Well, if she springs a leak we are gone,” said he. “She’s been thawing pretty fast as it is.”

They could see now that what had seemed in the moonlight to be smooth walls of ice were really furrowed and wrinkled like an old man’s face by the streams of melted water which were continually running down them. The whole huge mass was brittle and honeycombed and rotten. Already they could hear all round them the ominous drip, drip, and the splash and tinkle of the little rivulets as they fell into the ocean.

“Hullo!” cried Amos Green, “what’s that?”

“What then?”

“Did you hear nothing?”

“No.”

“I could have sworn that I heard a voice.”

“Impossible. We are all here.”

“It must have been my fancy then.”

Captain Ephraim walked to the seaward face of the cave and swept the ocean with his eyes. The wind had quite fallen away now, and the sea stretched away to the eastward, smooth and unbroken save for a single great black spar which floated near the spot where the Golden Rod had foundered.

“We should lie in the track of some ships,” said the captain thoughtfully. “There’s the codders and the herring-busses. We’re over far south for them, I reckon. But we can’t be more’n two hundred mile from Port Royal in Arcadia, and we’re in the line of the St. Lawrence trade. If I had three white mountain pines, Amos, and a hundred yards of stout canvas I’d get up on the top of this thing, d’ye see, and I’d rig such a jury-mast as would send her humming into Boston Bay. Then I’d break her up and sell her for what she was worth, and turn a few pieces over the business. But she’s a heavy old craft, and that&rsquo............