“We were there at six o’clock,” he said, and his voice was so steady that he seemed now to be free from the least touch of anxiety. “The course was South-40-East, and, against this wind and sea, together with a strong current to the nor’east, we would make eight knots under easy steam. Therefore, by eight o’clock, when the furnaces blew out, we were here.” He jabbed in a pin a little further down the chart. Mr. Boyle, whose peculiar gifts in the way of speech were accurately described by Dr. Christobal, grunted agreement. “Huh,” he said. Courtenay glanced at a chronometer. “It is now a quarter to nine,” he went on, “and I reckon that since the ship swung round we have been carried at least six knots to the nor’east.” “Huh,” growled Mr. Boyle again, but he bent a trifle nearer the chart. To his sailor’s eyes the situation was quite simple. Unless, by God’s providence, some miracle happened, the _Kansas_ was a doomed ship. The pin stuck where the Admiralty chart recorded soundings of one hundred fathoms with a fine sand bed. The longitude was 75-50 west of Greenwich and latitude 51-35 south. Staring at them from the otherwise blank space which showed the wide expanse of the Pacific was an ominous note by the compilers of the chart: “Seamen are cautioned not to make free with these shores, as they are very imperfectly known, and, from their wild, desolate character, they cannot be approached with safety.” Right in the track of the drifting ship lay a vaguely outlined trio of dread import: “Breakers; Islet (conical); Duncan Rock.” Behind this sinister barrier stood the more definite White Horse Island, while, running due north and south a few miles away to the eastward, was a wavering dotted line which professed to mark the coast of Hanover Island. Lending a fearful significance to the unknown character of the region, a printed comment followed the dotted line: “This coast is laid down from distant observations on board the Beagle.” So the sea face of Hanover Island had not been visited by civilized man for nearly sixty years! There, not three hours’ steaming distance from the regular track of Chilean commerce, was a place so guarded by reefs on one hand, and impenetrable, ice-capped mountains on the other, that a proper survey was deemed impracticable even by officers of the British Navy, a service which has charted nearly every rock and shoal and tiny islet on the face of the waters. Neither man spoke while their practised scrutiny took in these details. The roaring chaos of the gale told what fate awaited them. The elemental forces had donned the black cap of the judge and sentenced them to speedy destruction. Mr. Boyle pursed his lips; he looked sideways at Courtenay. “Huh,” he said. “What’s to be done?” “I propose,” answered the captain, coolly, “to endeavor—”