blouses and tarpaulin sou’-westers lay in every pose of death, every detail of feature and expression still perfectly preserved.  The sloops were all the same, all, all:  with sing-song creaks they rocked a little, nonchalantly:  each, as it were, with a certain sub-consciousness of its own personality, and callous unconsciousness of all the others round it:  yet each a copy of the others:  the same hooks and lines, disembowelling-knives, barrels of salt and pickle, piles and casks of opened cod, kegs of biscuit, and low-creaking rockings, and a bilgy smell, and dead men.  The next day, about eighty miles south of the latitude of Mount Hekla, I sighted a big ship, which turned out to be the French cruiser Lazare Treport.  I boarded and overhauled her during three hours, her upper, main, and armoured deck, deck by deck, to her lowest black depths, even childishly spying up the tubes of her two big, rusted turret-guns.  Three men in the engine-room had been much mangled, after death, I presume, by a burst boiler; floating about 800 yards to the north-east lay a long-boat of hers, low in the water, crammed with marines, one oar still there, jammed between the row-lock and the rower’s forced-back chin; on the ship’s starboard deck, in the long stretch of space between the two masts, the blue-jackets had evidently been piped up, for they lay there in a sort of serried disorder, to the number of two hundred and seventy-five.  Nothing could be of suggestion more tragic than the wasted and helpless power of this poor wandering vessel, around whose stolid mass myriads of wavelets, busy as aspen-leaves, bickered with a continual weltering splash that was quite loud to hear.  I sat a good time that afternoon in one of her steely port main-deck casemates on a gun-carriage, my head sunken on my breast, furtively eyeing the bluish turned-up feet, all shrunk, exsanguined, of a sailor who lay on his back before me; his soles were all that I could see, the rest of him lying head-downwards beyond the steel door-sill.

Drenched in seas of lugubrious reverie I sat, till, with a shuddering start, I awoke, paddled back to the Boreal, and, till sleep conquered me, went on my way.  At ten the next morning, coming on deck, I spied to the west a group of craft, and turned my course upon them.  They turned out to be eight Shetland sixerns, which must have drifted north-eastward hither.  I examined them well, but they were as the long list of the others:  for all the men, and all the boys, and all the dogs on them were dead.

* * * * *

I could have come to land a long time before I did:  but I would not:  I was so afraid.  For I was used to the silence of the ice:  and I was used to the silence of the sea:  but, God knows it, I was afraid of the silence of the land.

* * * * *

Once, on the 15th July, I had seen a whale, or thought I did, spouting very remotely afar on the S.E. horizon; and on the 19th I distinctly saw a shoal of porpoises vaulting the sea-surface, in their swift-successive manner, northward:  and seeing them, I had said pitifully to myself:  ’Well, I am not quite alone in the world, then, my good God—­not quite alone.’