They were signalling, too, for a white flag fluttered.

Then the mist rolled down on us again, and our prospect was limited to ten yards of vapour.
'Steady,' I cried; 'they may try to rush us at any moment.

Every man keep his eye on the edge of the fog, and shoot at the first sign.' For nearly half an hour by my watch we waited in that queer white world, our eyes smarting with the strain of peering.

The sound of the guns seemed to be hushed, and everything grown deathly quiet.
Blenkiron's squeal, as he knocked his wounded leg against a rock, made every man start.
Then out of the mist there came a voice.
It was a woman's voice, high, penetrating, and sweet, but it spoke in no tongue I knew.

Only Sandy understood.