ts. From his fingers the icy
cold crept up and up. Long since he had lost all sensation in his feet.
From the ankles down they were like wooden clogs. He had an idea they
were frozen. He lifted them, and watched them sink and disappear in the
clinging snow. He beat his numb hands against his breast. It was of no
use--he could not get back the feeling in them. A craving to lie down in
the snow assailed him.

Life was so sweet. He had visions of cities, of banquets, of theatres,
of glittering triumphs, of glorious excitements, of women he had loved,
conquered and thrown aside. Never again would he see that world. He
would die here, and they would find him rigid and brittle, frozen so
hard they would have to thaw him out before they buried him. He fancied
he saw himself frozen in a grotesque position. There would be
ice-crystals in the very centre of his heart, that heart that had glowed
so fiercely with the lust of life. Yes, life was sweet. A vast self-pity
surged over him. Well, he had done his best; he could struggle no more.

But struggle he did, another hour, two hours, three hours. Where was he
going? Maybe round in a circle. He was like an automaton now. He did not
think any more, he just kept moving. His feet clumped up and down. He
lifted himself out of snowpits; he staggered a few steps, fell, crawled
on all fours in the darkness, then in a lull of the furious wind rose
once more to his feet. The night was abysmal; closer and closer it
hugged him. The wind was charging him from all points, baffling him like
a merry monster, beating him down. The snow whirled around him in a
narrow eddy, and he tried to grope out of it and failed. Oh, he was
tired, tired!

He must give up. It was too bad. He was so strong, and capable of so
much for good or bad. Alas! it had been all for bad. Oh, if he had but
another chance he might make his life tell a different tale! Well, he
wasn't going to whine or cower. He would die game.

His feet were frozen; his arms were frozen. Here he would lie down
and--quit. It would soon be over, and it was a pleasant death, they
said. One more look he gave through the writhing horror of the darkness;
one more look before he closed his eyes to the horror of the Greater
Darkness....

Ha! what was that? He fancied he saw a dim glow just ahead. It could not
be. It was one of those cheating dreams that came to a dying man, an
illusion, a mockery. He closed his eyes. Then he opened them again--the