“What’s that ahead, Nick?” Gale asked suddenly. There was an outline in the light over our bow that stopped all tendency to mirth. It was that of a canoe, and presently when we swept by it, we got a glimpse of a white, dead face within. Silently Gale once more extended toward Mr. Sturritt the depleted flask. This time he did not refuse. XXXVII. THE RISING TIDE. It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when we noticed that the ceiling seemed to be drawing nearer to our heads. The change was very gradual and at first we could not be sure. Then Gale said: “It’s getting closer, boys—there’s no doubt of it. We’re probably down to tide-water, and I believe we’re hitting it just about right—it can’t fill up along here.” We steered the boat toward the side of the passage and examined the ice closely as we passed. Then he indicated a faint line about three feet above us. “There’s where it gets to, here,” he said; “of course it gets higher farther down. If it gets too high, well——” He did not finish, and we went on at full speed. Lower and lower descended the wall above. At half-past four it was within two feet of our heads, when we sat upright, and stretching away into the blackness on either side it seemed an irresistible mountain mass that was to crush us beneath the flood. We felt that we were going slower, too, for the tide had opposed and checked the current. At quarter of five I was obliged to stoop. “Low bridge,” said Gale, but less than an hour later the situation lost its last vestige of humor, even for him. From the bottom of the boat where we were lying, he called: “Nick, I forgot one thing. The ebb tide and the incoming tide probably meet about here. I think we’re goners.” I lay in the bow, which still lacked a few inches of touching the ice above. I had my eyes lifted as high as possible, looking ahead. The world weight of ice was coming down—down—the world of water rising, and steadily rising from below. Between, the space was narrowing from feet to inches, and the line of meeting seemed just ahead. Once I thought I saw there a tiny spark that was not of our own light. Then it disappeared, came again, disappeared—I could not look. I felt already that I was being crushed, smothered, drowned. The ice above brushed against my hair. I lowered my head quickly until like the others I lay full length in the bottom of the boat. “Gale—Sturritt,” I groaned, “forgive me! I got you into all this.” Chauncey Gale’s smothered voice was first to answer. “Not a word, Nick! We went into the game with our eyes open. Besides, this deal is mine.” And from Mr. Sturritt: “It’s—it’s all right. I—I’m with the Admiral!” And now the bow was touching and sliding on the ice above. It was several inches higher than the stern, but presently that touched also. We were being pressed slowly, surely downward. I don’t know what the others were doing, but I was praying, hard.