twelve o'clock noon on the eighth day of June
The men were bustling about like boys and we had nothing to think of now but the packing of the food and the harnessing of the dogs and ponies , for we were leaving everything else behind us . At the last moment before we turned northward I planted the Union Jack on the highest hummock of snow , and when we were a hundred yards off I looked back through the gloom and saw it blowing stiffly in the wind . I do n't think I need tell how deeply that sight cut me , but if life has another such moment coming for me all I have to say is that I hope I may die before I live to see it -- which is Irish , but most damnably true . That was twelve o'clock noon on the eighth day of June and anybody may make what he likes of what I say , but as nearly as I can calculate the difference of time between London and where we were in the 88th latitude it was the very hour of my dear one 's peril . M.C. -LSB- END OF MARTIN CONRAD 'S MEMORANDUM -RSB- Two weeks passed and if I suffered from getting up too soon I was never conscious of it . Once or twice , perhaps , in the early days I felt a certain dizziness and had to hold on for a moment to the iron rail of my bedstead , but I was too much occupied with the tender joys of motherhood to think much about myself .