Consequently there was a scene, in which they fervently blessed each other, and agreed, henceforth, that each do his own cooking.  A week later, Cuthfert neglected his morning ablutions, but none the less complacently ate the meal which he had cooked.  Weatherbee grinned.  After that the foolish custom of washing passed out of their lives.

As the sugar-pile and other little luxuries dwindled, they began to be afraid they were not getting their proper shares, and in order that they might not be robbed, they fell to gorging themselves.  The luxuries suffered in this gluttonous contest, as did also the men.

In the absence of fresh vegetables and exercise, their blood became impoverished, and a loathsome, purplish rash crept over their bodies.  Yet they refused to heed the warning.

Next, their muscles and joints began to swell, the flesh turning black, while their mouths, gums, and lips took on the color of rich cream.  Instead of being drawn together by their misery, each gloated over the other’s symptoms as the scurvy took its course.

They lost all regard for personal appearance, and for that matter, common decency.  The cabin became a pigpen, and never once were the beds made or fresh pine boughs laid underneath.  Yet they could not keep to their blankets, as they would have wished; for the frost was inexorable, and the fire box consumed much fuel.  The hair of their heads and faces grew long and shaggy, while their garments would have disgusted a ragpicker.  But they did not care.  They were sick, and there was no one to see; besides, it was very painful to move about.

To all this was added a new trouble—­the Fear of the North.  This Fear was the joint child of the Great Cold and the Great Silence, and was born in the darkness of December, when the sun dipped below the horizon for good.  It affected them according to their natures.

Weatherbee fell prey to the grosser superstitions, and did his best to resurrect the spirits which slept in the forgotten graves.  It was a fascinating thing, and in his dreams they came to him from out of the cold, and snuggled into his blankets, and told him of their toils and troubles ere they died.  He shrank away from the clammy contact as they drew closer and twined their frozen limbs about him, and when they whispered in his ear of things to come, the cabin rang with his frightened shrieks.  Cuthfert did not understand—­for they no longer spoke—­and when thus awakened he invariably grabbed for his revolver.  Then he would sit up in bed, shivering nervously, with the weapon trained on the unconscious dreamer.  Cuthfert deemed the man going mad, and so came to fear for his life.

His own malady assumed a less concrete form.  The mysterious artisan who had laid the cabin, log by log, had pegged a wind-vane to the ridgepole.  Cuthfert noticed it always pointed south, and one day, irritated by its steadfastness of purpose, he turned it toward the east.  He watched eagerly, but never a breath came by to disturb it.  Then he turned the vane to the north, swearing never again to touch it till the wind did blow.  But the air frightened him with its unearthly calm, and he often rose in the middle of the night to see if the vane had veered—­ten degrees would have satisfied him.  But no, it poised above him as unchangeable as fate.