“Life is a strange thing.  Much have I thought on it, and pondered long, yet daily the strangeness of it grows not less, but more.  Why this longing for Life?  It is a game which no man wins.  To live is to toil hard, and to suffer sore, till Old Age creeps heavily upon us and we throw down our hands on the cold ashes of dead fires.  It is hard to live.  In pain the babe sucks his first breath, in pain the old man gasps his last, and all his days are full of trouble and sorrow; yet he goes down to the open arms of Death, stumbling, falling, with head turned backward, fighting to the last.  And Death is kind.  It is only Life, and the things of Life that hurt.  Yet we love Life, and we hate Death.  It is very strange.

“We spoke little, Passuk and I, in the days which came.  In the night we lay in the snow like dead people, and in the morning we went on our way, walking like dead people.  And all things were dead.  There were no ptarmigan, no squirrels, no snowshoe rabbits,—­nothing.  The river made no sound beneath its white robes.  The sap was frozen in the forest.  And it became cold, as now; and in the night the stars drew near and large, and leaped and danced; and in the day the sun-dogs mocked us till we saw many suns, and all the air flashed and sparkled, and the snow was diamond dust.  And there was no heat, no sound, only the bitter cold and the Silence.  As I say, we walked like dead people, as in a dream, and we kept no count of time.  Only our faces were set to Salt Water, our souls strained for Salt Water, and our feet carried us toward Salt Water.  We camped by the Tahkeena, and knew it not.  Our eyes looked upon the White Horse, but we saw it not.  Our feet trod the portage of the Canyon, but they felt it not.  We felt nothing.  And we fell often by the way, but we fell, always, with our faces toward Salt Water.

“Our last grub went, and we had shared fair, Passuk and I, but she fell more often, and at Caribou Crossing her strength left her.  And in the morning we lay beneath the one robe and did not take the trail.  It was in my mind to stay there and meet Death hand-in-hand with Passuk; for I had grown old, and had learned the love of woman.  Also, it was eighty miles to Haines Mission, and the great Chilcoot, far above the timber-line, reared his storm-swept head between.  But Passuk spoke to me, low, with my ear against her lips that I might hear.  And now, because she need not fear my anger, she spoke her heart, and told me of her love, and of many things which I did not understand.

“And she said:  ’You are my man, Charley, and I have been a good woman to you.  And in all the days I have made your fire, and cooked your food, and fed your dogs, and lifted paddle or broken trail, I have not complained.  Nor did I say that there was more warmth in the lodge of my father, or that there was more grub on the Chilcat.  When you have spoken, I have listened.  When you have ordered, I have obeyed.  Is it not so, Charley?’