The ear heard not the crash of falling ice, nor 

 the roar of the smitten sea, nor the hollow 

 boom of breakers in the caverns ; it listened 

 for a low chatter, soft as the talk of birds in 

 their sleep, which spoke of life and the glad- 

 ness of life in the midst of the vast solitude. 



Behind us, as we watched the scene and 

 the Wild Duck wore away to find a safe 

 opening between the bergs, the dusk came 

 creeping up over the ocean's brim. In front 

 a marvelous light of sunset and ice and 

 colored sea beckoned yet repelled us by its 

 awful glory. All around us was silence, vast, 

 profound, palpable, a silence of bygone ages, 

 which hushed the sea-birds' chatter and which 

 was only deepened and intensified by the far- 

 off surge of breakers on the shoal and the 

 nearer roll of thunder in the ice caves. Then 

 out of the silence a groan, an awful sound in 

 the primeval stillness of the place, rumbled 

 over the startled sea. It was as if the abyss 

 itself, silent for untold ages, had at last found 

 voice, and the voice was a moan of pain. 



The man at the wheel, a grizzled old fish- 

 erman of St. Barbes, who took sublimity and 



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Outof/fie 



