After long, weary months of sailing, when provisions ran low, when cold and hunger had pinched the sailors sorely, they openly grumbled at Nordjansen’s rule; they wearied for home, for wives and sweethearts. “Why seek further?” cried one; “we are already too far from home!” “What do we seek?” said another bitterly. “A fool’s desire! The commander’s Jack-o-lantern!” answered a third derisively. But though they grumbled and cast many black looks, the tones were low and they were careful that they spoke behind his back. Nordjansen paced his deck with fierce impatience; he strained his eyes for indication of that which he sought—the North Pole. The beautiful Aurora Borealis lighted his way with streaming flames of red, that quivered into golden glory, or faded into palest silver—only to flame, and shoot, and dart across the heavens again like fantastic, serpent tongues; he approached the beautiful wonder—it seemed to him not one jot nearer than in the beginning of his journey. His heart lay heavy within him. He surprised the fierce, scowling glances of his sailors, as by twos and threes they grumbled together. He sternly ordered them about their business; they grumbled still more as they obeyed. His heart sank with dread; the chill wind blew through the frozen cordage, and whistling shrilly, mocked the lure of his lifetime. Was all his effort to end in failure; were all his hopes and lofty ambitions to yield no fruition? Was he never—never to fathom the secret of the Unknown and the Wonderful? For hours he paced the deck; true, at his command the sailors had slunk away, but with scowls of bitter hate; each heart filled with wrath and grievous longing. Habit of obedience is strong, and Nordjansen was commander, as he was careful that they should remember. In his pacing to and fro he passed the compass; he paused in astonishment, the needle was vibrating strangely, and he became conscious that the vessel was no longer going steadily on her course—although the water appeared smooth—but was pitching in short, sudden lurches; now slightly to the right, then to the left; quivering—quivering—like some frightened living thing. Strange thrills ran through his body; a terrible fear shook him. The flames of the Aurora seemed to hang directly over the ship, and to be of a fiery hue, anon changing to all the prismatic colors of the rainbow, so brilliant as to frighten him; a thousand fiery tongues seemed to lick at the reeling ship, as though to devour her, and all contained therein. He covered his eyes with his shaking hands to shade his tortured eyeballs from their satanic gambolings. One by one the terrified sailors crept on deck and huddled together, talking in awed whispers, or crouched around the mast in abject fear. At last three, more bold—or more desperate—than the others, walked up to Nordjansen; one, a grizzled old fellow, pulled his tangled forelock awkwardly. “What do you wish?” asked Nordjansen sternly.