“Pitch the tent!” said Bennett quietly.  “We must wait now till it blows over.”

In the lee of a mound of ice-covered rock some hundred yards from the coast the tent was pitched, and supper, such as it was, eaten in silence.  All knew what this enforced halt must mean for them.  That supper—­each man could hold his portion in the hollow of one hand—­was the last of their regular provisions.  March they could not.  What now?  Before crawling into their sleeping-bags, and at Bennett’s request, all joined in repeating the Creed and the Lord’s Prayer.

The next day passed, and the next, and the next.  The gale continued steadily.  The southerly march was discontinued.  All day and all night the men kept in the tent, huddled in the sleeping-bags, sometimes sleeping eighteen and twenty hours out of the twenty-four.  They lost all consciousness of the lapse of time; sensation even of suffering left them; the very hunger itself had ceased to gnaw.  Only Bennett and Ferriss seemed to keep their heads.  Then slowly the end began.

For that last week Bennett’s entries in his ice-journal were as follows: 

“November 29th—­Monday—­Camped at 4:30 p.m. about 100 yards from the coast.  Open water to the eastward as far as I can see.  If I had not been compelled to abandon my boats—­but it is useless to repine.  I must look our situation squarely in the face.  At noon served out last beef-extract, which we drank with some willow tea.  Our remaining provisions consist of four-fifteenths of a pound of pemmican per man, and the rest of the dog meat.  Where are the relief ships?  We should at least have met the steam whalers long before this.

“November 30th—­Tuesday—­The doctor amputated Mr. Ferriss’s other hand to-day.  Living gale of wind from northeast.  Impossible to march against it in our weakened condition; must camp here till it abates.  Made soup of the last of the dog meat this afternoon.  Our last pemmican gone.

“December lst—­Wednesday—­Everybody getting weaker.  Metz breaking down.  Sent Adler down to the shore to gather shrimps.  We had about a mouthful apiece for lunch.  Supper, a spoonful of glycerine and hot water.

“December 2d—­Thursday—­Metz died during the night.  Hansen dying.  Still blowing a gale from the northeast.  A hard night.

“December 3d—­Friday—­Hansen died during early morning.  Muck Tu shot a ptarmigan.  Made soup.  Dennison breaking down.

“December 4th—­Saturday—­Buried Hansen under slabs of ice.  Spoonful of glycerine and hot water at noon.

“December 5th—­Sunday—­Dennison found dead this morning between Adler and myself.  Too weak to bury him, or even carry him out of the tent.  He must lie where he is.  Divine services at 5:30 P.M.  Last spoonful of glycerine and hot water.”

* * * * *

The next day was Monday, and at some indeterminate hour of the twenty-four, though whether it was night or noon he could not say, Ferriss woke in his sleeping-bag and raised himself on an elbow, and for a moment sat stupidly watching Bennett writing in his journal.  Noticing that he was awake, Bennett looked up from the page and spoke in a voice thick and muffled because of the swelling of his tongue.