“Too late!” he murmured brokenly.  “Too late!” and stumbled to the snow-cushioned chopping block.

He dared not go in.  Evidently the camp had let George die; had never come near to lift a hand.  He was afraid of what lay within, afraid to face it alone.  Yet a dreadful need to know pulled him forward.  Three times he approached the door, retreating each time in panic.  At last he laid soft hands upon the latch and entered, averting his eyes.  Even so, and despite the darkness inside, he was conscious of it; saw from his eye corners the big, still bulk that sat wrapped and propped in the chair by the table.  He sensed it dazedly, inductively, and turned to flee, then paused.

“Ye made it, boy!  It’s the twelfth to-day.”  George’s voice came weakly, and with a great cry Captain sprang to him.

“Bout all in,” the other continued.  “Ain’t been on my feet for two days.  I knowed you’d come to-day, though; it’s the twelfth.”

Captain made no reply, for he had knelt, his face buried in the big man’s lap, his shoulders heaving, while he cried like a little boy.