A complete silence reigns on board during the pursuit, only now and then broken by the captain’s short words of command, who stands calmly watching the animals. Now the vessel heels over—the whales are within range. ‘Stop,’ sounds in the engine-room. But the speed was too great, and we shoot past them. ‘Full speed ahead,’ sounds again. ‘Two men at the helm!’ The vessel turns swiftly, and we separate the couple. The whales disappear. We follow the direction they are taking, and look!—a little before us the sea becomes emerald green. ‘Slow,’ again. The vessel moves slowly forward, and the whale reappears twenty yards off. ‘Stop,’ shouts the captain. The gun is turned, raised, and again lowered—not a sound is heard on board—the whale has puffed—the back is bending; the captain aims—and a thundering report rends the air, and makes the vessel tremble in every section. We have watched all this with every nerve strained, and hardly feel the icy foam of the sea which bedews the cheek and benumbs the hands. ‘Did you hit him?’ we shout to the captain. ‘Don’t know,’ is the laconic answer. ‘Almost absurd to attempt it in such a sea; one risks losing the gear and frightening the whale.’ In the meantime all the crew are busy clearing the line of the harpoon, and we are still in doubt whether we have hit him; but the suspense does not last long, as immediately a ‘Look out!’ is shouted by the captain, and the line runs out with terrific speed and a great noise. ‘Full speed ahead,’ is shouted below; but the ship is running double her highest speed, such is the strength of the whale which has her in tow. The animal is fleeing at the top of its speed, and we follow right through the breaking seas. Ten minutes pass by—they seem ten hours—when suddenly a blood-streaked column of water is seen on the horizon. It is our whale! Another moment, and a clear one is seen. It is his companion, which follows her wounded mate. Both go down; the line does not run out so fast; the wounded whale appears once or twice more, when he sinks. The whale is dead. After a while, the hauling-in begins very carefully, and finally the great body rises to the surface, the ship heeling over. After a few hours’ hard work in securing the monster to the vessel with chains and ropes, the course is shaped for home. ‘What do you think of it, captain?’ I ask. ‘Not bad,’ he answers simply.—‘Steward, give the crew a drink all round! And let us have something to eat.’ The whale measured more than eighty feet in length. Once more his widowed mate takes a turn round the ship, when she stands out to sea; whilst we, with our noble spoil in tow, slowly make for the whale-station in South Varanger. A GOLDEN ARGOSY. _A NOVELETTE._ CHAPTER III.