332 
LETTERS FROM HIGH LATITUDES. 
the load of his forebodings was greater than he could 
bear; he gets up, steals into the Doctor’s cabin, wakes 
him up, and standing over him—as the messenger of 
ill tidings once stood over Priam—whispers, “ Sir! ” 
“ What is it?” says Fitz, thinking perhaps some one 
was ill. “ Do you know where we are going?” 
“ Why, to Throndhjem,” answered Fitz. “ We were 
going to Throndhjem,” rejoins Wilson, “ but we ain’t 
now—the vessel’s course was altered two hours ago. Oh, 
Sir! we are going to Whirlpool—to WJiirl-rl-l-pooo-l! 
Sir! ” in a quaver of consternation,—and so glides back 
to bed like a phantom, leaving the Doctor utterly unable 
to divine the occasion of his visit. 
The whole of the next day the gale continued. We 
had now sailed back into night; it became therefore 
a question how far it would be advisable to carry on 
during the ensuing hours of darkness, considering how 
uncertain we were as to our real position. As I think 
I have already described to you, the west coast of 
Norway is very dangerous; a continuous sheet of sunken 
rocks lays out along its entire edge for eight or ten 
miles to sea. There are no lighthouses to warn the 
mariner off; and if we were wrong in our reckoning, 
