Ferriss’s teeth shut suddenly upon his pipestem.

Bennett rose.  “Tell Muck Tu,” he said, “in case I don’t think of it again, that the dogs must be fed from now on from those that die.  I shall want the dog biscuit and dried fish for our own use.”

“I suppose it will come to that,” answered Ferriss.

“Come to that!” returned Bennett grimly; “I hope the dogs themselves will live long enough for us to eat them.  And don’t misunderstand,” he added; “I talk about our getting stuck in the ice, about my not pulling through; it’s only because one must foresee everything, be prepared for everything.  Remember—­I—­shall—­pull—­through.”

But that night, long after the rest were sleeping, Ferriss, who had not closed his eyes, bestirred himself, and, as quietly as possible, crawled from his sleeping-bag.  He fancied there was some slight change in the atmosphere, and wanted to read the barometer affixed to a stake just outside the tent.  Yet when he had noted that it was, after all, stationary, he stood for a moment looking out across the ice with unseeing eyes.  Then from a pocket in his furs he drew a little folder of morocco.  It was pitiably worn, stained with sea-water, patched and repatched, its frayed edges sewed together again with ravellings of cloth and sea-grasses.  Loosening with his teeth the thong of walrus-hide with which it was tied, Ferriss opened it and held it to the faint light of an aurora just paling in the northern sky.

“So,” he muttered after a while, “so—­Bennett, too—­”

For a long time Ferriss stood looking at Lloyd’s picture till the purple streamers in the north faded into the cold gray of the heavens.  Then he shot a glance above him.

“God Almighty, bless her and keep her!” he prayed.

Far off, miles away, an ice-floe split with the prolonged reverberation of thunder.  The aurora was gone.  Ferriss returned to the tent.

The following week the expedition suffered miserably.  Snowstorm followed snowstorm, the temperature dropped to twenty-two degrees below the freezing-point, and gales of wind from the east whipped and scourged the struggling men incessantly with myriad steel-tipped lashes.  At night the agony in their feet was all but unbearable.  It was impossible to be warm, impossible to be dry.  Dennison, in a measure, recovered his health, but the ulcer on McPherson’s foot had so eaten the flesh that the muscles were visible.  Hawes’s monotonous chatter and crazy whimperings filled the tent every night.

The only pleasures left them, the only breaks in the monotony of that life, were to eat, and, when possible, to sleep.  Thought, reason, and reflection dwindled in their brains.  Instincts—­the primitive, elemental impulses of the animal—­possessed them instead.  To eat, to sleep, to be warm—­they asked nothing better.  The night’s supper was a vision that dwelt in their imaginations hour after hour throughout the entire day.  Oh, to