, such as St. Olave, the warrior
saint of Norway, laid in the lap of the fair Geyra, princess of
Vendland.

With many a kiss, passionate and sorrowful, he greeted the hidden
love-treasures, and many a falling tear dimmed the bold eyes, and wet
the ruddy cheeks of the youthful watcher, as late into the night he sat
gazing into the flaring flame of that element, in which many a sorrowful
heart, in its agony, seems to find a parallel of the torture it endures,
and to find a saddened pleasure in the contemplation. But at last the
watcher turned to his rude couch, and only the radiance of the lamp,
diffused through the opaline walls of the hut, gave evidence of the
presence of human beings in that desolate, wave-borne, wind-driven,
desert of ice.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE RING.--THE BURIAL.--A MAUSOLEUM OF ICE.

In the early dawn La Salle started from sleep, as he felt a chill touch
upon his forehead, and saw Regnar standing above him, booted and
equipped for travel. In one hand he held a cup of hot coffee, and in the
other the breast of a roast goose, which he offered to La Salle in
silence. Fearful of awaking their companions, nothing was said by
either, until, armed and equipped, they issued from the hut, and
hastened towards the scene of last night's strange adventure.

It was the nineteenth of the month, and the ninth day of their
involuntary voyage, and La Salle, as usual, gave a sweeping glance at
ice and sky, to determine as nearly as possible the direction of their
drift, and the probable state of the weather for the next twelve hours.

"We shall know all that at sunrise," said Regnar; and avoiding the
haunts of the seals, they hurried through the gray light along the
devious windings of the ice-foot, until they reached the murdered
sealer. The body lay as it had been landed on the edge of a pool, and
was that of a singularly handsome man, about forty-five years of age. No
beard, save a well-kept mustache, covered the sharply-moulded features;
and even the death-wound--the work of a small-sized bullet--had left but
a tiny livid discoloration on the marble forehead.

Turning the body over,--a work of some time and difficulty, for the wet
clothes had frozen,--an expression of surprise escaped the lips of
Regnar, for the rear of the skull, from which the missile had issued,
was almost blown into pieces.

"How could a bullet have done this?" asked the youth, gravely.

"There is but one kind of missile which