At every step one comes across a nest made of moss and feathers, sheltered by a fragment of rock. The female bird has plucked off her softest down to protect her eggs or her brood against the frost. The brooding bird is scarcely disturbed by our approach. She covers up her eggs and hides them under the down before taking her flight, if she is given time to do so. The reports of the gun repeated again and again by the echo reverberating from the mountains resemble the rolling of thunder and make a hideous din. At four o’clock, a lunch, highly appreciated, is served out on a bank of moss. This meal, partaken with vigorous appetite, consists of ham, caviar, and slices of smoked reindeer-flesh; the whole being washed down with light beer, and seasoned by the most unrestrained gaiety. A pure Havannah cigar completes this most unconventional feast. We fill our lungs with the pure air, and feel it a joy to live. But time glides swiftly by, and we must think of returning. We are two hours’ journey from the _Virgo_. Our sailors make an extensive raid upon the nests, and return loaded with baskets full of eggs and down. The game is put on board and we depart. As we run along, the coast and glaciers are covered with seals, but the noise of our engine frightens them and they flee at our approach. The sea has become rough, and the wind, which takes us port, sends up waves which threaten to swamp the boat. We are much tossed about, but I can now stand the rolling of the vessel like an old mariner. However, we must not boast: one cannot be too sure of anything. The temperature has gone down perceptibly, and the cumuli, which a short time ago were hovering on the sides of the mountains, are now lowering down upon the sea, and soon envelop us completely. We are now in the midst of a very dense and cold fog. We can scarcely see a few yards in front of us, and we must slacken speed in order to avoid collision with the icebergs detached from the glaciers. The sun, which, a moment ago, still showed very feebly, has completely disappeared. We are plunged into utter darkness, and in spite of compass and charts we have, for the moment, lost our bearings. What a change, after the aspect of the sky a short while ago! The engineer whistles by way of a call to the _Virgo_, but there is no response from that vessel. Without being actually desperate, our situation is becoming critical, as we no longer know exactly what distance we have covered. We run a risk of passing our island without perceiving it, and of getting lost at sea! At last, after several detours, we recognise the lagoons of the Isle of Amsterdam on the right, and soon a sailor points out the _Virgo_, which looms in the semi-darkness at a distance of fifty yards or so in front of us. At this moment it is 8 p.m. The captain, Andrée, and Ekholm are on the deck. Without being alarmed at our fate, they were glad enough to see us back again; but Stadling’s boat has not yet come back.