“What are we going to do, little dog?” he whispered.  “What are we going to do if—­if our captain should—­if he shouldn’t—­” he had no words to finish.  Kamiska took her place again by his side, and the two resumed their vigil.

Meanwhile, not fifty feet away, a low voice, monotonous and rapid, was keeping up a continuous, murmuring flow of words.

“That’s well your number two sledge.  All hands on the McClintock now.  You’ve got to do it, men.  Forward, get forward, get forward; get on to the south, always to the south—­south, south, south!...  There, there’s the ice again.  That’s the biggest ridge yet.  At it now!  Smash through; I’ll break you yet; believe me, I will!  There, we broke it!  I knew you could, men.  I’ll pull you through.  Now, then, h’up your other sledge.  Forward!  There will be double rations to-night all round—­no—­half-rations, quarter-rations....  No, three-fifths of an ounce of dog-meat and a spoonful of alcohol—­that’s all; that’s all, men.  Pretty cold night, this—­minus thirty-eight.  Only a quarter of a mile covered to-day.  Everybody suffering in their feet, and so weak—­and starving—­and freezing.”  All at once the voice became a wail.  “My God! is it never going to end?...  Sh—­h, steady, what was that?  Who whimpered?  Was that Ward Bennett?  No whimpering, whatever comes.  Stick it out like men, anyway.  Fight it out till we drop, but no whimpering....  Who said there were steam whalers off the floe?  That’s a lie!  Forward, forward, get forward to the south—­no, not the south; to the north, to the north!  We’ll reach it, we’ll succeed; we’re most there, men; come on, come on!  I tell you this time we’ll reach it; one more effort, men!  We’re most there!  What’s the latitude?  Eighty-five-twenty—­eighty-six.”  The voice began to grow louder:  “Come on, men; we’re most there!  Eighty-seven—­eighty-eight—­eighty-nine-twenty-five!” He rose to a sitting position.  “Eighty-nine-thirty—­eighty-nine-forty-five.”  Suddenly the voice rose to a shout.  “Ninety degrees! By God, it’s the Pole!”

The voice died away to indistinct mutterings.

Lloyd was at the bedside by now, and quietly pressed Bennett down upon his back.  But as she did so a thrill of infinite pity and compassion quivered through her.  She had forced him down so easily.  He was so pitifully weak.  Woman though she was, she could, with one small hand upon his breast, control this man who at one time had been of such colossal strength—­such vast physical force.

Suddenly Bennett began again.  “Where’s Ferriss?  Where’s Richard Ferriss?  Where’s the chief engineer of the Freja Arctic Exploring Expedition?”

He fell silent again, and but for the twitching, dancing hands, lay quiet.  Then he cried: 

“Attention to the roll-call!”

Rapidly and in a low voice he began calling off the muster of the Freja’s men and officers, giving the answers himself.