It was the Arctic summer; but little of summer was visible in the gloomy scene around; and above a leaden canopy of a sky hung, grey, dismal, and depressing. For three days the sun had not appeared, and there was every indication of a heavy snowstorm ere long. Little the party cared for this, however; storm or shine, within twelve hours they would know the result of their quest; would know whether the professor’s theory was a fact or a delusion, and all were eagerly awaiting the moment of decision. Here, amid the towering crags of the icebergs, some hardy seafowl wheeled, uttering at intervals a shrill shriek of defiance; there a seal, waiting until the submarine had approached to within a few yards of the ice-floe on which it lay, would dive with scarce a splash into the swelling green waters. But beyond these no sign of life was visible. Unless there was more game in the realms they expected to find beyond the barrier, Seymour’s weapons were like to grow rusty through disuse. Suddenly a cry came from Garth: “The barrier! At last!” The _Seal,_ obeying a slight movement of her wheel, had rounded a monster berg, and ahead, many miles distant yet, but looming nearer with every yard the vessel advanced, rose the towering peaks of the barrier ice, the grim and silent guardians of the secret of the Pole. Crag upon crag, pinnacle after pinnacle, they towered, glittering with an unearthly brilliance, through the rarefied air of these high altitudes. The inventor’s shout brought Seymour and the scientist up, and out on deck in an instant. One glimpse they got of the marvellous range of ice mountains, then a giant berg floated across the line of vision. “Ugh!” the Professor shivered, “let’s get inside. It’s too cold to stand out here.” Forthwith the three passed into the turret, and closed the door. As they did so, a score of feathery flakes drifted across the vessel’s deck. “Snow!” cried the baronet. Ere a moment had passed, the submarine was surrounded by a dazzling white veil, through which it was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. “Better submerge her,” Garth said; “we shall be less likely to collide with any of the bergs beneath the surface. This smother is worse than a London fog.” He touched a button on the switchboard beside the wheel as he spoke, and instantly the throb of the pumps sounded through the vessel, and she began to sink. Soon, with her searchlight gleaming brightly before her, she was gliding swiftly along beneath the surface. The water was filled with life: hundreds of strange fish flashed past the turret, their gleaming eyes reflecting the electric rays in a myriad rainbow hues. Once or twice, through the grey-green water, came the ghostly shimmer of ice, as some berg trailed into view, to be left rapidly behind. So for an hour the _Seal_ moved onward; then the searchlight gleamed on a glistening white wall some distance ahead.