The great distance to which sounds are conveyed in intensely cold and clear weather, is a fact known to most persons.  Conversations in the ordinary tone had been heard by the sealers when the speakers were nearly a mile off; and, on several occasions, attempts had been made to hold communications, by means of the voice, between the wreck and the hut.  Certain words had been understood; but it was found impossible to hold anything that could be termed conversation.  Still, the voice had been often heard, and a fancy had come over the mind of Roswell that he heard a cry like a call for assistance, just as Stimson joined him.

“It is so late, sir, that I should hardly think any of the Vineyarders would be up,” observed the boat-steerer, after listening some little time in the desire to catch the sound mentioned.  “Then it is so cold, that most men would like to get beneath their blankets as soon as they could.”

“I do not find it so very cold, Stephen.  Have you looked at the thermometer lately?”

“I gave it a look in coming out, sir; and it tells a terrible story to-night!  The marcury is all down in the ball, which is like givin’ the matter up, I do suppose, Captain Gar’ner.”

“’Tis strange!  I do not feel it so very cold!  The wind seems to be getting round to north-east, too; give us enough of that, and we shall have a thaw.  Hark! there is the cry again.”

This time there could be no mistake.  A human voice had certainly been raised amid the stillness of that almost polar night, clearly appealing to human ears, for succour.  The only word heard or comprehended was that of “help;” one well enough adapted to carry the sound far and distinctly.  There was a strain of agony in the cry, as if he who made it uttered it in despair.  Roswell’s blood seemed to flow back to his heart; never had he before felt so appalling a sense of the dependence of man on a Divine Providence, as at that moment.

“You heard it?” he said, inquiringly, to Stephen, after an instant of silent attention, to make sure that no more was to reach his ears just then.

“Sartain, sir—­no man could mistake that.  It was the voice of the nigger, Joe; him that Captain Daggett has for a cook.”

“Think you so, Stephen?  The fellow has good lungs, and they may have set him to call upon us in their distress.  What can be the nature of the assistance they ask?”

“I’ve been thinking of that, Captain Gardner; and a difficult p’int it is to answer.  Food they must have still; and was they in want of their rations, hands would have been sent across to get ’em.  They may have let their fire go out, and be without the means to re-light it.  I can think of nothing else that is likely to happen to men so sarcumstanced.”