It was four minutes past one.

Donovan was right: it couldn't be morning.

A sudden thought struck me.
"It's the northern lights, Donovan!" I exclaimed.
"So red as this ?" "Yes: it's the fog." "Do you really think so ?" with a relieved breath.
"There's no doubt of it." "But it makes a funny noise." "Noise ?" "Yes: I heard it several times before I called you.

Hark! There!" A soft, rushing sound, which was neither the wind (for there was none), nor the waves, nor the touch of ice, could be heard at brief intervals.

It seemed far aloft.