It was the dead of a dreary winter in the Straits of Magellan, about the beginning of July--the seasons, as I need hardly tell my young readers, being quite the reverse of ours--the dead of a dreary winter; and no one who has ever traversed this region of fogs and storms in a sailing ship at such a time will be likely to forget the feeling of gloom that often settles down on board, both fore and aft. The men try hard to fight against it. They smoke, they sing, they fiddle, they dance--on every available excuse the captain may even splice the main-brace; but all pleasures are transient, and do not come directly from the heart. This was the case now on board the good barque _Boo-boo-boo_. Willie and Sandie felt depressed; even Tyro the collie seemed in low spirits or out of sorts. At times the days would be bright and clear enough, and with probably a strong wind blowing, and a white and chafing sea, the rugged rocks and mountains would be seen on the distant horizon like threatening storm-clouds. Even pieces of ice were not unfrequently met with; but strangest sight of all were the half-naked savages in their queer little boats that crossed the barque’s hawse, or, hanging on to her sides, begged for alms. These were Firelanders, or Terra del Fuegians. “And,” said Captain D’Acre, “mild and cringing though they now appear, they are among the most implacable savages in the world, and cannibals to boot. Heaven help the merchant ship that runs on shore on their inhospitable coast; unless they can defend their lives, a short shrift is theirs. They are killed, and eaten afterwards.” Sandie shuddered. “I could tell you some terrible stories connected with these Firelanders, boys, but the weather is depressing enough. No need to sink your spirits to zero. Besides, we are still among them. We must not hulloo till we are out of the wood.” Very little sail, comparatively speaking, could now be carried, for to a sailing ship the passage of the Straits presents dangers innumerable. But to those days, so bright and clear, succeed nights of inky darkness and silence, a darkness that the light streaming from the binnacle, or upwards from the dead-lights, seemed to pierce as with arrows of gold. There was a mystery, nay, even a strange fascination to Sandie--who was deeply imbued with romance and superstition--in nights like these. Perhaps even the men felt something of this as well, for hardly would they speak above a whisper, and even walked along the decks in silence, as if dreading to wake an echo. But Sandie would lean over the bulwarks, and peer into the intense black darkness, listening breathlessly, as if he expected some voice to hail him from the inky deep. Sometimes his heart almost stood still with a nameless dread, as near by he could hear a sullen plash and boom. What was it? He could never even guess.