They let off a gun. Two shots answered. Lines of tiny
black dots advanced toward them. They were Samoyed dog-sledges. "And
fancy what a stroke of luck!" says Borissoff; "they were old friends
of mine, with whom I had lived on my first sojourn in the tundra!"

[Illustration: A STUDY MADE IN NOVA ZEMBLA AT THE TIME OF THE COMPLETE
ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, JULY 27, 1896]

Brought finally to shore by the natives, they rejoiced childishly at
its contact. Here was solid land! Here were real stones! "Strange
phenomenon," says Borissoff, "an hour before, we had scarcely been
able to lift our weary feet. Now we wanted to leap, dance, laugh, cry,
pray, and run about aimlessly! Timofeieff and I took two rifles and
went along the shore northward. We ploughed through the snow, why and
whither we did not know. We could not sit still. Then, when we
returned to the snug tents, we ate boiled reindeer meat, drank hot
tea, and lay down to sleep twenty-seven hours without once waking!"
The land journey back to their portable house was accomplished in
dog-sledges.

[Illustration: PAINTING OF A CHURCH BUILT BY M. SEBERJAKOW]

The three months' night was passed amid comfortable surroundings. They
shot the white bear. They read, dreamed, told stories, and played
cards interminably. They received continual visits from delighted
natives, come on perilous pilgrimages to the magic European house,
with its lavish food novelties, its devil-boxes that talked, sang, and
played music.

When the three months' day came again, they made a great sledge
expedition north to the Straits of Tchekin, called The Unknown and the
Bear Straits. Borissoff, as usual, made quantities of paintings. He
named one enormous glacier after Count Witte.

"One morning I went out to paint it, shining like silver in the
sunlight. I had scarcely finished making the rough sketch," he tells,
"when a noise of shuffling and deep breathing attracted my attention.
Glancing round, I saw to my horror the shaggy white body of a great
polar bear within ten feet of my back. He had been watching me paint.
Now, taking my fright for hostility, he lost interest in art and
advanced toward me, with a paw uplifted. Springing back, I snatched my
rifle, crying: 'Oshkai! Oshkai!' hoping that my companions might hear.
Dropping on one knee, I fired; but the bullet only caused the great
bear to roar and dash toward me. I fired again. The shot was more
effective. It slowed his progress. Then three shot