“If I could have a day’s rest—­” began McPherson, unsteadily.  Bennett cast a glance at Dennison, the doctor.  Dennison shook his head.  The foot, the entire leg below the knee, should have been amputated days ago.  A month’s rest even in a hospital at home would have benefited McPherson nothing.

For the fraction of a minute Bennett debated the question, then he turned to the command.

“Forward, men!”

“What—­wh—­” began McPherson, sitting upon the ground, looking from one face to another, bewildered, terrified.  Some of the men began to move off.

“Wait—­wait,” exclaimed the cripple, “I—­I can get along—­I—­” He rose to his knees, made, a great effort to regain his footing, and once more came crashing down upon the ice.

“Forward!”

“But—­but—­but—­Oh, you’re not going to leave me, sir?”

“Forward!”

“He’s been my chum, sir, all through the voyage,” said one of the men, touching his cap to Bennett; “I had just as soon be left with him.  I’m about done myself.”

Another joined in: 

“I’ll stay, too—­I can’t leave—­it’s—­it’s too terrible.”

There was a moment’s hesitation.  Those who had begun to move on halted.  The whole expedition wavered.

Bennett caught the dog-whip from Muck Tu’s hand.  His voice rang like the alarm of a trumpet.

“Forward!”

Once more Bennett’s discipline prevailed.  His iron hand shut down upon his men, more than ever resistless.  Obediently they turned their faces to the southward.  The march was resumed.

Another day passed, then two.  Still the expedition struggled on.  With every hour their sufferings increased.  It did not seem that anything human could endure such stress and yet survive.  Toward three o’clock in the morning of the third night Adler woke Bennett.

“It’s Clarke, sir; he and I sleep in the same bag.  I think he’s going, sir.”

One by one the men in the tent were awakened, and the train-oil lamp was lit.

Clarke lay in his sleeping-bag unconscious, and at long intervals drawing a faint, quick breath.  The doctor bent over him, feeling his pulse, but shook his head hopelessly.

“He’s dying—­quietly—­exhaustion from starvation.”

A few moments later Clarke began to tremble slightly, the mouth opened wide; a faint rattle came from the throat.

Four miles was as much as could be made good the next day, and this though the ground was comparatively smooth.  Ferriss was continually falling.  Dennison and Metz were a little light-headed, and Bennett at one time wondered if Ferriss himself had absolute control of his wits.  Since morning the wind had been blowing strongly in their faces.  By noon it had increased.  At four o’clock a violent gale was howling over the reaches of ice and rock-ribbed land.  It was impossible to go forward while it lasted.  The stronger gusts fairly carried their feet from under them.  At half-past four the party halted.  The gale was now a hurricane.  The expedition paused, collected itself, went forward; halted again, again attempted to move, and came at last to a definite standstill in whirling snow-clouds and blinding, stupefying blasts.