gaseous elements of the air need to be slaked with moisture; for innumerable columns of water rush upwards into the air and fall back again in white foam. Whither are we flying? My uncle lies full length across the raft. The heat increases. I refer to the thermometer; it indicates … (the figure is obliterated).
Monday, August 24. —Will there be an end to it? Is the atmospheric condition, having once reached this density, to become final? We are prostrated and worn out with fatigue. But Hans is as usual. The raft bears on still to the southeast. We have made two hundred leagues since we left Axel Island. At noon the violence of the storm redoubles. We are obliged to secure as fast as possible every article that belongs to our cargo. Each of us is lashed to some part of the raft. The waves rise above our heads. For three days we have never been able to make each other hear a word. Our mouths open, our lips move, but not a word can be heard. We cannot even make ourselves heard by approaching our mouth close to the ear. My uncle has drawn nearer to me. He has uttered a few words. They seem to be “We are lost;” but I am not sure. At last I write down the words: “Let us lower the sail.” He nods his consent.