“Let him be,” Labiskwee muttered harshly.

But Smoke persisted, dragging the Irishman to his feet and facing him down the long slope they must go.  Then he started him with a shove, and McCan, braking and steering with his staff, shot into the sheen of diamond-dust and disappeared.

Smoke looked at Labiskwee, who smiled, though it was all she could do to keep from sinking down.  He nodded for her to push off, but she came near to him, and side by side, a dozen feet apart, they flew down through the stinging thickness of cold fire.

Brake as he would, Smoke’s heavier body carried him past her, and he dashed on alone, a long way, at tremendous speed that did not slacken till he came out on a level, crusted plateau.  Here he braked till Labiskwee overtook him, and they went on, again side by side, with diminishing speed which finally ceased.  The lethargy had grown more pronounced.  The wildest effort of will could move them no more than at a snail’s pace.  They passed McCan, again crouched down on his skees, and Smoke roused him with his staff in passing.

“Now we must stop,” Labiskwee whispered painfully, “or we will die.  We must cover up—­so the old men said.”

She did not delay to untie knots, but began cutting her pack-lashings.  Smoke cut his, and, with a last look at the fiery death-mist and the mockery of suns, they covered themselves over with the sleeping-furs and crouched in each other’s arms.  They felt a body stumble over them and fall, then heard feeble whimpering and blaspheming drowned in a violent coughing fit, and knew it was McCan who huddled against them as he wrapped his robe about him.

Their own lung-strangling began, and they were racked and torn by a dry cough, spasmodic and uncontrollable.  Smoke noted his temperature rising in a fever, and Labiskwee suffered similarly.  Hour after hour the coughing spells increased in frequency and violence, and not till late afternoon was the worst reached.  After that the mend came slowly, and between spells they dozed in exhaustion.

McCan, however, steadily coughed worse, and from his groans and howls they knew he was in delirium.  Once, Smoke made as if to throw the robes back, but Labiskwee clung to him tightly.

“No,” she begged.  “It is death to uncover now.  Bury your face here, against my parka, and breathe gently and do no talking—­see, the way I am doing.”

They dozed on through the darkness, though the decreasing fits of coughing of one invariably aroused the other.  It was after midnight, Smoke judged, when McCan coughed his last.  After that he emitted low and bestial moanings that never ceased.

Smoke awoke with lips touching his lips.  He lay partly in Labiskwee’s arms, his head pillowed on her breast.  Her voice was cheerful and usual.  The muffled sound of it had vanished.

“It is day,” she said, lifting the edge of the robes a trifle.  “See, O my lover.  It is day; we have lived through; and we no longer cough.  Let us look at the world, though I could stay here thus forever and always.  This last hour has been sweet.  I have been awake, and I have been loving you.”