TO THE HOLY HILLS 361 
On the wood-work of the shelter of the companion 
were deeply carved in block capitals the English words 
TESS OF CROMER. Alexander could tell me nothing 
more than that it was part of a bit of wreckage picked 
up by himself on the Kolguev sandbanks twelve years 
ago. Since my return home I have done my best to 
trace this boat, but without success. 
But to return. Alexander after this function betrayed 
but one more sign of irresolution. How could he enter 
the Timanskii Schar at night? ‘Well, you must hang 
about till the morning,’ I replied, ‘but you ought to 
have lanterns at these entrances, as we in England do.’ 
Whereupon says Yakoff, ‘Ah, he’s getting frightened now; 
he says there ought to be a lantern.’ And they all took 
it jeeringly up like a stage chorus, showing the curious 
nervous state into which they had worked themselves. 
So we weighed anchor and moved out one behind the 
other. Over the bar we found eight feet of water, and 
got safely out. Very soon we were clear of the fog, 
which we could see, whenever we looked back, hanging 
like a pall of cloud over the island. We had done it. 
Kolguev was behind us. 
Kolguev, with its kind hearts and its barbarous con- 
tradictions, its many delights and many discomforts, its 
treeless wastes and its charm of birds, its reindeer, its 
sleighs, its careless existence—all these were things of 
the past. 
This time it really was ‘Good-bye. Kolguev!’ 
