CAMPON THE FLOES. 
131 
berg from which I might have a sight of the road 
ahead, I perceived far off upon the white snow a dark 
object, which not only moved, but altered its shape 
strangely,—now expanding into a long black line, 
now waving, now gathering itself up into a compact 
mass. It was the returning sledge party. They had 
seen our black tent of Kedar, and ferried across to 
seek it. 
They were most welcome; for their absence, in the 
fearfully open state of the ice, had filled me with 
apprehensions. We could not distinguish each other 
as we drew near in the twilight; and my first good 
news of them was when I heard that they were sing¬ 
ing. On they came, and at last I was able to count 
their voices, one by one. Thank God, seven! Poor 
John Blake was so breathless with gratulation, that 
I could not get him to blow his signal-horn. We 
gave them, instead, the good old Anglo-Saxon greet¬ 
ing, “ three cheers!” and in a few minutes were among 
them. 
