I carried my lantern across her quarterdeck, and with timid steps again descended into the after cabin.  The lantern shed a ghostly light upon the figure of the man at the table.  I walked round to the opposite side from that at which he sat and turned the light upon his face.  His long beard was overgrown with the same green mould that hung over his glassy blue eyes, and yet there was a look of life about his features.

I chanced to look at the ink pot in front of him.  A little black dust was all that it contained.  Then I had a wish to see what he had been writing in his log book.  I drew the volume towards me and turned it that I might read.  The words were in English; they seemed to have been written by a cold and trembling hand.  The last lines on the open page were in themselves a revelation.  They were as follows: 

“It is now seventeen days since we were shut up in the ice.  The fire went out yesterday, and our captain has since tried to light it again.  His wife died this morning.  There is no more hope.”

I pondered over these words for some time, trying to realize their sad meaning.

“There is no more hope!”

How long since had that sentence been written?  How long had the ice imprisoned this vessel in its cold, hard grip?

I turned back a few pages in search of some recorded date, and found this entry: 

“New Year’s Day, 1831:—­The ice still closing in on us.  Opened last bag of biscuits.  Murray died this morning.”

So long ago! the year 1831! and now it was the year 1844!  The ship, then, had been lost for thirteen years!

I turned the light upon the man crouching over the stove.  His features, like those of his companion, were covered with green mould, and his beard was fringed with the same grim mildew.

Taking my lantern I went through into the stateroom, and there I found the body of a woman laid upon a bed.  Her features were still fresh and lifelike, but her black hair was powdered with the damp green growth.  Before her a young man was seated on the floor, holding a flint in one hand and a steel in the other.  A few sticks of hard wood were piled up in front of him.  I could but surmise that these were the captain and his wife.

From the stateroom I turned into the pantry.  Not a sign of provisions of any sort could I discover, either here or in any other part of the ship.  The galley fireplace was empty of fuel, a few pieces of charred wood were the only remains of a fire.

Before leaving the ship I went forward into the fore cabin.  A dog was stretched out as though asleep at the foot of the ladder, and several sailors lay in their hammocks.  They also were reposing in the sleep of death.  They all appeared to have died very peacefully; but whether from the want of food alone or, as I have since thought possible, from want of air, being shut up in the heart of an iceberg, I had no means of knowing.