316 SPITSBERGEN chap, xxm 



soon saw what Andersen must have done, so he related all 

 that he knew about the Russians. But vengeance was 

 already on Andersen's track. He took his sloop far up 

 into the ice, which came packing all around him so that 

 he could find no way out. Leaving the ship, he got on to 

 a high iceberg and climbed to the very topmost peak of it, 

 for it was tall and sharp. As he stood on the top, looking 

 all round for a way to come out of the ice, the great ice- 

 berg trembled, and then turned right over. It flung the 

 murderer into the sea and sucked him under, so that he was 

 never seen again, and went straight to hell." 



The wind sobbed and howled, as I sat in the tent listen- 

 ing to this tale. The water of the bay broke on the shingly 

 beach a yard or two off. Rain deluged the tent roof. The 

 surroundings matched the story which Bottolfsen told with 

 energetic gestures and glittering eyes. 



About noon next day (13th) the Expres sailed in the con- 

 tinuing downpour. The outlook was not promising for a 

 climb, but I felt confident that if the thing could be done, 

 Garwood would do it. All day long I worked at journals, 

 records, and baggage. In the evening, now noticeably 

 duller than the day, Gregory and I wandered up to the 

 winterer's grave and the ruins of his hut. Clouds were 

 low over the bay, but a pale misty light crept beneath 

 them, and spread upon the calm bosom of the waters, against 

 which the black crosses stood out sharply. The air was 

 still. A settled melancholy pervaded the silent scene. Dark- 

 ness hung on the skirts of the hills. A mild drizzle began 

 to fall, and the atmosphere grew thick and greyer. A school 

 of white whales came curving and blowing through the glassy 

 water, close along the shore, where the wrecked cutter lay 

 stranded. Silence laid its hand upon us also. Time seemed 

 to be standing still. It was our last evening on the shores 

 of Spitsbergen. 



