Friday, March 16 or Saturday 17.—­Lost track of dates, but think the last correct.  Tragedy all along the line.  At lunch, the day before yesterday, poor Titus Oates said he couldn’t go on; he proposed we should leave him in his sleeping-bag.  That we could not do, and induced him to come on, on the afternoon march.  In spite of its awful nature for him he struggled on and we made a few miles.  At night he was worse and we knew the end had come.

Should this be found I want these facts recorded.  Oates’ last thoughts were of his Mother, but immediately before he took pride in thinking that his regiment would be pleased with the bold way in which he met his death.  We can testify to his bravery.  He has borne intense suffering for weeks without complaint, and to the very last was able and willing to discuss outside subjects.  He did not—­would not—­give up hope to the very end.  He was a brave soul.  This was the end.  He slept through the night before last, hoping not to wake; but he woke in the morning—­yesterday.  It was blowing a blizzard.  He said, ‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’  He went out into the blizzard and we have not seen him since.

I take this opportunity of saying that we have stuck to our sick companions to the last.  In case of Edgar Evans, when absolutely out of food and he lay insensible, the safety of the remainder seemed to demand his abandonment, but Providence mercifully removed him at this critical moment.  He died a natural death, and we did not leave him till two hours after his death.  We knew that poor Oates was walking to his death, but though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a brave man and an English gentleman.  We all hope to meet the end with a similar spirit, and assuredly the end is not far.

I can only write at lunch and then only occasionally.  The cold is intense, -40 deg. at midday.  My companions are unendingly cheerful, but we are all on the verge of serious frostbites, and though we constantly talk of fetching through I don’t think anyone of us believes it in his heart.

We are cold on the march now, and at all times except meals.  Yesterday we had to lay up for a blizzard and to-day we move dreadfully slowly.  We are at No. 14 pony camp, only two pony marches from One Ton Depot.  We leave here our theodolite, a camera, and Oates’ sleeping-bags.  Diaries, &c., and geological specimens carried at Wilson’s special request, will be found with us or on our sledge.

Sunday, March 18.—­To-day, lunch, we are 21 miles from the depot.  Ill fortune presses, but better may come.  We have had more wind and drift from ahead yesterday; had to stop marching; wind N.W., force 4, temp. -35 deg..  No human being could face it, and we are worn out nearly.