To the south there is a water-sky coaxing us on to the frozen mystery beyond. Perhaps this is a temptation of the manless antarctic to ensnare and keep us for the winter; perhaps it is to reveal to us new lands and new glories in the unknown white expanse. But whatever our reward, or our punishment, for this forced intrusion, the task is difficult. There are about us to-day many signs of land, and this also urges us on in our hopeless effort to navigate the seemingly endless sea of ice. Toward the south-east there are yellow land clouds, which slide over each other as though their mission was to hide the outline of some heaven-guarded coast from human gaze. Above these low-hanging clouds there are black bands of sky, indicating open lanes of water near what promises to be land. The ice, too, is what is usually termed bay-ice, with freshly broken edges, with icicles hanging from some points, and having upon the surface only small hummocks. There are no signs of pressure and the whole scene is weighted down with about twenty inches of soft snow. The animal life also indicates an approach to land. We have about us large numbers of ossifrages and magalestris, which are supposed to keep land within easy reach. The penguins and seals seen to-day are indicative of a near land mass; while the meteorologist vows that the cold dry wind coming from the south-south-east rolls off from some continental ice-capped country. Even the engineer comes forward with a sign. He has a keen nose, and says he smells the mossy rocks. But where is this mysterious land? We are not within a thousand miles of any known land. Shall we discover this land, or is it an illusion? (We afterwards saw many similar signs of land, but all proved deceptive. We saw no real land, except what came from the sea-bottom, from the time we got the last glimpse of Alexander Islands until we returned to Tierra del Fuego thirteen months later.) [Illustration: Hauling Snow to Augment the Water Supply.] [Illustration: Making Soundings.] Early in the afternoon our hopes were shattered. We again reached a zone, as we so often had, farther east, where it was impossible to pass between the sheets of heavy ice. Here we rested for the balance of the afternoon and the night. We continued to search the horizon for further signs of the promised land, but most of the indications disappeared during our stay. The engine fires were burnt down. Everything about the _Belgica_ is non-restful. There is little wind; the temperature remains low -7.5° C. (-18.5° F.) An easy swell keeps the ice in a constant groan, and penguins send out their social calls. We are now accustomed to all this noise. Indeed, when tired and weary, as we are at present from long-continued anxiety, the groans of the ice and the cries of the penguins serve only to impress us with the awful solitude and the uninterrupted pearly monotony of the antarctic.