“That is no reason,” said André Vasling. “In these high latitudes and cold regions sounds may be heard to a great distance.” “However that may be,” replied Jean Cornbutte, “let us go forward, or we shall be frozen.” “No!” cried Penellan. “Listen!” Some feeble sounds—quite perceptible, however—were heard. They seemed to be cries of distress. They were twice repeated. They seemed like cries for help. Then all became silent again. “I was not mistaken,” said Penellan. “Forward!” He began to run in the direction whence the cries had proceeded. He went thus two miles, when, to his utter stupefaction, he saw a man lying on the ice. He went up to him, raised him, and lifted his arms to heaven in despair. André Vasling, who was following close behind with the rest of the sailors, ran up and cried,— “It is one of the castaways! It is our sailor Courtois!” “He is dead!” replied Penellan. “Frozen to death!” Jean Cornbutte and Marie came up beside the corpse, which was already stiffened by the ice. Despair was written on every face. The dead man was one of the comrades of Louis Cornbutte! “Forward!” cried Penellan. They went on for half an hour in perfect silence, and perceived an elevation which seemed without doubt to be land. “It is Shannon Island,” said Jean Cornbutte. A mile farther on they distinctly perceived smoke escaping from a snow-hut, closed by a wooden door. They shouted. Two men rushed out of the hut, and Penellan recognized one of them as Pierre Nouquet. “Pierre!” he cried. Pierre stood still as if stunned, and unconscious of what was going on around him. André Vasling looked at Pierre Nouquet’s companion with anxiety mingled with a cruel joy, for he did not recognize Louis Cornbutte in him. “Pierre! it is I!” cried Penellan. “These are all your friends!” Pierre Nouquet recovered his senses, and fell into his old comrade’s arms. “And my son—and Louis!” cried Jean Cornbutte, in an accent of the most profound despair. CHAPTER XII. THE RETURN TO THE SHIP. At this moment a man, almost dead, dragged himself out of the hut and along the ice. It was Louis Cornbutte. [Illustration: It was Louis Cornbutte.] “My son!” “My beloved!” These two cries were uttered at the same time, and Louis Cornbutte fell fainting into the arms of his father and Marie, who drew him towards the hut, where their tender care soon revived him. “My father! Marie!” cried Louis; “I shall not die without having seen you!” “You will not die!” replied Penellan, “for all your friends are near you.” André Vasling must have hated Louis Cornbutte bitterly not to extend his hand to him, but he did not. Pierre Nouquet was wild with joy. He embraced every body; then he threw some wood into the stove, and soon a comfortable temperature was felt in the cabin. There were two men there whom neither Jean Cornbutte nor Penellan recognized. They were Jocki and Herming, the only two sailors of the crew of the Norwegian schooner who were left.