Bitterly as we lamented the fate of the poor dog, whose howls were brought to our ears by the wind, we had nothing for it but to return to the ship. About noon next day when it was sufficiently clear, Brosch, the two Tyrolese, and I set out to ascertain the fate of the dog. The snow was drifting heavily, and we constantly sank into it as we advanced. After a toilsome walk we came on traces of blood, which Sumbu followed up, while Gillis timidly stuck to us. At last, after we had gone on for the third of a mile, Sumbu came back in a great state of excitement, and then ran on before us till he stopped at an ice-hummock, where he renewed his angry barks. We advanced with quickened steps and with our rifles cocked, and when we were about twenty paces from it the bear came out from behind, apparently in great astonishment. After several shots the bear fell, but again gathering himself up he dragged himself along like a walrus, in spite of his broken spine, with extraordinary activity towards an “ice-hole” covered with young ice. Two other shots with explosive bullets terminated his career, and Matoschkin, whose body we afterwards found behind the ice-hillock, was avenged. [Illustration: FRUITLESS ATTEMPT TO RESCUE MATOSCHKIN.] 3. The cold set in with great intensity with the month of February and maintained itself throughout it: the mean monthly temperature being -31° F. Repeatedly the quicksilver froze, and in the last eight days it remained solid. Even the petroleum was frozen on the 17th at -49° F. in the globe of the lamp, though it was throwing out a considerable heat. The lowest temperature we experienced was on the last day of the month, -51° F. Notwithstanding the extreme cold, the light had increased so much that a thermometer, in which the degrees were strongly marked, could be read off, even on the 3rd of the month, at ten o’clock in the forenoon without the aid of lamplight; and on the 20th we were able to carry on our meteorological observations, without any artificial light at six o’clock in the evening. The ruddiness we observed at noon in the south grew more and more decided. On clear days we could discern, about seven o’clock in the morning, a faint twilight, and at noon of February 14 the near approach of the sun was distinctly to be traced by a bright cloud that was resting over it, though it was still below the horizon. About the middle of the month there was light enough to cause the different forms and groups of ice to cast shadows. In spite of the low temperature, we remained for hours in the open air, though previously to this period we had ventured on deck for a few minutes only at a time—the watch of course excepted. But as the daylight increased, we saw also what a dark, gloomy grave had been our abode for so long a period. All our thoughts and conversations were concentrated on the returning light of the sun. The movements of the ice ceased to be a source of dread, though