The schooner leaped as he spoke into the turmoil of roaring spray. In ten seconds she was through the passage, and there was a sudden and almost total cessation of heaving motion. The line of islands formed a perfect breakwater, and not a wave was formed, even by the roaring gale, bigger than those we find on such occasions in an ordinary harbour. As isle after isle was passed the sea became more and more smooth, and, although the surface was torn up and covered with foam, no great rollers heaved the vessel about. The tight little craft still bent over to the blast, but she cut through perfectly flat water now.

A delightful feeling of having come to the end of a rough voyage filled the hearts of all on board. Sam Sorrel raised his head, and began to look less yellow and more cheerful. Tittles began to wag the stump of his miserable tail, and, in short, every one began to look and to feel happy.

Thus did the Snowflake approach the coast of Norway.

Now, it is by no means an uncommon occurrence in this world that a calm should follow close on the heels of a storm. Soon after the Snowflake had entered the islands the storm began to abate, as if it felt that there was no chance of overwhelming the little yacht now. That night, and the greater part of the following day, a dead calm prevailed, and the schooner lay among the islands with her sails flapping idly from the yards.

A little after midnight all on board were asleep, save the man at the helm and Captain McNab, who seemed to be capable of existing without sleep for any length of time when occasion required. The schooner now lay in a latitude so far north that the light of the sun never quite left the sky in clear weather. A sweet soft twilight rested on the rocky islands and on the sea, and no sound disturbed the stillness except the creaking of the yards or the cries of seamews.

Yes, by the way, there was another sound. It proceeded from the cabin where our three friends lay sleeping on the sofas. The sound was that of snoring, and it issued from the wide-open mouth of Sam Sorrel, who lay sprawling on his back, with Tittles coiled up at his feet.

It is probable that Sam would have snored on for hours, but for a piece of carelessness on his part. Just before going to rest he had placed a tin can of water close to his head in such a way that it was balanced on the edge of a shelf. A slight roll of the schooner, caused by the entrance of a wave through an opening in the islands, toppled this can over and emptied its contents on the sleeper’s face.

He leaped up with a roar, of course. Tittles jumped up with a yelp, while Grant and Temple turned round with a growl at having been awakened, and went off to sleep again.

But sleep was driven away from the eyes of Sam Sorrel. He made one or two efforts to woo it back in vain, so in despair he jumped up, put his sketch-book in his pocket, seized a double-barrelled fowling-piece, and went on deck, followed by Tittles. The little boat was floating under the quarter, and a great mountainous island lay close off the starboard bow. Getting into the boat, Sam rowed to the island, and was soon clambering up the heights with the activity of a squirrel.

Sam paused now and then to gaze with admiration on the magnificent scene that lay spread out far below him; the innumerable islands, the calm water bathed in the soft light of early morning, and the schooner floating just under his feet like a little speck or a sea-gull on the calm sea. Pulling out his book and pencil, he sat down on a rock and began to draw.

Suddenly the artist was startled by the sound of a heavy pair of wings overhead. Thousands of seagulls flew above him, filling the air with their wild cries, but Sam did not think it possible that they could cause the sound which he had, heard. While he was still in doubt an enormous eagle sailed majestically past him. It evidently had not seen him, and he sat quite still, scarce daring to draw his breath. In a moment the gigantic bird sailed round the edge of a precipitous cliff, and was gone.

Sam at once rose and hurried forward with his gun. He was much excited, for eagles are very difficult to approach—they are so shy and wary. Few men who go to Norway ever get the chance of a shot at the king of birds.

Judge, then, of the state of Sam Sorrel’s mind when, on turning a corner of rock, he suddenly beheld the eagle standing on the edge of a great precipice about a hundred yards in advance of him.

But his hopes were much cast down when he observed that between him and the eagle there was a space of open ground, so that he could not creep farther forward without being seen. How was he to advance? What was he to do? Such a chance might not occur again during the whole voyage. No time was to be lost, so he resolved to make a rush forward and get as near as possible before the bird should take to flight.

No sooner thought than done. He rushed down the mountain-side like a madman. The eagle sprang up in alarm just as he reached the side of a rounded rock. Halting suddenly, he took aim, and fired both barrels. The eagle gave a toss of its head and a twirl of its tail, and, sailing slowly away round a neighbouring cliff, disappeared from view.

A deep groan burst from the poor artist as he exclaimed, “Oh dear, I’ve missed it!”

But Sam was wrong. He had not missed it. On climbing to the other side of the cliff he found the eagle stretched on the ground in a dying state. Its noble-looking eye scowled for a moment on him as he came up, then the head drooped forward and the bird died. It measured six feet four inches from tip to tip of its expanded wings, and was as magnificent a specimen of the golden eagle as one could wish to see.

With a triumphant step Sam carried it down to the yacht, where he found his comrades still sound asleep; so he quietly fastened the eagle up over Grant’s bed, with the wings expanded and the hooked beak close to the sleeper’s nose!

The day that followed this event continued calm, but towards evening a light breeze sprang up, and before midnight the Snowflake cast anchor in the harbour of Bergen.

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