He replaced the letter in its sack, and crawled between his blankets close to Pierre.

That night had seen the beginning of his struggle with himself.  This year, autumn and winter came early in the North country.  It was to be a winter of terrible cold, of deep snow, of famine and pestilence—­the winter of 1910.  The first oppressive gloom of it added to the fear and suspense that began to grow in Philip.

For days there was no sign of the sun.  The clouds hung low.  Bitter winds came out of the North, and nights these winds wailed desolately through the tops of the spruce under which they slept.  And day after day and night after night the temptation came upon him more strongly to open the letter he was carrying to Peter God.

He was convinced now that the letter—­and the letter alone—­held his fate, and that he was acting blindly.  Was this justice to himself?  He wanted Josephine.  He wanted her above all else in the world.  Then why should he not fight for her—­in his own way?  And to do that he must read the letter.  To know its contents would mean—­Josephine.  If there was nothing in it that would stand between them, he would have done no wrong, for he would still take it on to Peter God.  So he argued.  But if the letter jeopardized his chances of possessing her, his knowledge of what it contained would give him an opportunity to win in another way.  He could even answer it himself and take back to her false word from Peter God, for seven frost-biting years along the edge of the Barren had surely changed Peter God’s handwriting.  His treachery, if it could be called that, would never be discovered.  And it would give him Josephine.

This was the temptation.  The power that resisted it was the spirit of that big, clean, fighting North which makes men out of a beginning of flesh and bone.  Ten years of that North had seeped into Philip’s being.  He hung on.  It was November when he reached Port MacPherson, and he had not opened the letter.

Deep snows fell, and fierce blizzards shot like gunblasts from out of the Arctic.  Snow and wind were not what brought the deeper gloom and fear to Fort MacPherson.  La mort rouge, smallpox,—­the “red death,”—­was galloping through the wilderness.  Rumors were first verified by facts from the Dog Eib Indians.  A quarter of them were down with the scourge of the Northland.  From Hudson’s Bay on the east to the Great Bear on the west, the fur posts were sending out their runners, and a hundred Paul Reveres of the forests were riding swiftly behind their dogs to spread the warning.  On the afternoon of the day Philip left for the cabin of Peter God, a patrol of the Royal Mounted came in on snowshoes from the South, and voluntarily went into quarantine.

Philip traveled slowly.  For three days and nights the air was filled with the “Arctic dust” snow that was hard as flint and stung like shot; and it was so cold that he paused frequently and built small fires, over which he filled his lungs with hot air and smoke.  He knew what it meant to have the lungs “touched”—­sloughing away in the spring, blood-spitting, and certain death.