"We will sleep now, if your ice friend will let us. We will eat
to-morrow, but we can find some bread for you if you want it."
"No," I said, "go to rest. I, too, will sleep now and eat to-morrow."
Nothing was attempted in the way of light or fire. Camping that night
was simply lying down. The boulders seemed to make a fair bed after
finding the best place to take their pressure.
During the night I was awakened by the beating of the spent ends of
berg-waves against the side of my tent, though I had fancied myself
well beyond their reach. These special waves are not raised by wind
or tide, but by the fall of large bergs from the snout of the
glacier, or sometimes by the overturning or breaking of large bergs
that may have long floated in perfect poise. The highest berg-waves
oftentimes travel half a dozen miles or farther before they are much
spent, producing a singularly impressive uproar in the far recesses
of the mountains on calm dark nights when all beside is still. Far
and near they tell the news that a berg is born, repeating their
story again and again, compelling attention and reminding us of
earthquake-waves that roll on for thousands of miles, taking their
story from continent to continent.
When the Indians came ashore in the morning and saw the condition of
my tent they laughed heartily and said, "Your friend [meaning the big
glacier] sent you a good word last night, and his servant knocked at
your tent and said, 'Sagh-a-ya, are you sleeping well?'"
