But the daylight brought no mitigation of their sufferings.  The merciless cold continued without abatement, and the sun seemed to mock their misery.  The foxes disappeared, and the ice-bears in their stead swarmed around the house, and clambered at night over the roof.  Again they constantly fought with them for their lives.  Daily the grave question was renewed whether the men should feed on the bears or the bears on the men.  On one occasion their dead enemy proved more dangerous to them than in life, for three of their number, who had fed on bear’s liver, were nearly poisoned to death.  Had they perished, none of the whole party would have ever left Nova Zembla.  “It seemed,” said the diarist, “that the beasts had smelt out that we meant to go away, and had just begin to have a taste for us.”

And thus the days wore on.  The hour-glass and the almanac told them that winter had given place to spring, but nature still lay in cold obstruction.  One of their number, who had long been ill, died.  They hollowed a grave for him in the frozen snow, performing a rude burial service, and singing a psalm; but the cold had nearly made them all corpses before the ceremony was done.

At last, on the 17th April, some of them climbing over the icebergs to the shore found much open sea.  They also saw a small bird diving in the water, and looked upon it as a halcyon and harbinger of better fortunes.  The open weather continuing, they began to hanker for the fatherland.  So they brought the matter, “not mutinously but modestly and reasonably, before William Barendz; that he might suggest it to Heemskerk, for they were all willing to submit to his better judgment.”  It was determined to wait through the month of May.  Should they then be obliged to abandon the ship they were to make the voyage in the two open boats, which had been carefully stowed away beneath the snow.  It was soon obvious that the ship was hard and fast, and that she would never float again, except perhaps as a portion of the icebergs in which she had so long been imbedded, when they should be swept off from the shore.

As they now set to work repairing and making ready the frail skiffs which were now their only hope, and supplying them with provisions and even with merchandize from the ship, the ravages made by the terrible winter upon the strength of the men became painfully apparent.  But Heemskerk encouraged them to persevere; “for,” said he, “if the boats are not got soon under way we must be content to make our graves here as burghers of Nova Zembla.”

On the 14th June they launched the boats, and “trusting themselves to God,” embarked once more upon the arctic sea.  Barendz, who was too ill to walk, together with Claas Anderson, also sick unto death, were dragged to the strand in sleds, and tenderly placed on board.

Barendz had, however, despite his illness, drawn up a triple record of their voyage; one copy being fastened to the chimney of their deserted house, and one being placed in each of the boats.  Their voyage was full of danger as they slowly retraced their way along the track by which they reached the memorable Ice Haven, once more doubling the Cape of Desire and heading for the Point of Consolation—­landmarks on their desolate progress, whose nomenclature suggests the immortal apologue so familiar to Anglo-Saxon ears.