!"

Crayford broke away from the officers near him; and, hurrying forward,
seized Frank by both hands. Crayford held him as if he would never let
him go.

"God preserve you, Frank! I would give all I have in the world to be
with you. Good-by! Good-by!"

Frank waved his hand--dashed away the tears that were gathering in his
eyes--and hurried out. Crayford called after him, the last, the only
warning that he could give:

"While you can stand, keep with the main body, Frank!"

Wardour, waiting till the last--Wardour, following Frank through the
snow-drift--stopped, stepped back, and answered Crayford at the door:

"While he can stand, he keeps with Me."

Third Scene--The Iceberg.

Chapter 12.

Alone! alone on the Frozen Deep!

The Arctic sun is rising dimly in the dreary sky. The beams of the cold
northern moon, mingling strangely with the dawning light, clothe the
snowy plains in hues of livid gray. An ice-field on the far horizon is
moving slowly southward in the spectral light. Nearer, a stream of
open water rolls its slow black waves past the edges of the ice. Nearer
still, following the drift, an iceberg rears its crags and pinnacles
to the sky; here, glittering in the moonbeams; there, looming dim and
ghost-like in the ashy light.

Midway on the long sweep of the lower slope of the iceberg, what objects
rise, and break the desolate monotony of the scene? In this awful
solitude, can signs appear which tell of human Life? Yes! The black
outline of a boat just shows itself, hauled up on the berg. In an
ice-cavern behind the boat the last red embers of a dying fire flicker
from time to time over the figures of two men. One is seated, resting
his back against the side of the cavern. The other lies prostrate, with
his head on his comrade's knee. The first of these men is awake, and
thinking. The second reclines, with his still white face turned up to
the sky--sleeping or dead. Days and days since, these two have fallen
behind on the march of the expedition of relief. Days and days since,
these two have been given up by their weary and failing companions as
doomed and lost. He who sits thinking is Richard Wardour. He who lies
sleeping or dead is Frank Aldersley.

The iceberg drifts slowly, over the black water, through the ashy light.
Minute by minute the dying fire sinks. Minute by minute the deathly cold
creeps nearer and nearer to the lost men.

Richard Wardour rouses himself from his thought