dy the advantage of Spurling's four
additional huskies was beginning to tell. At last his dogs lay down in
their traces and refused to budge. He knew that he could force them to
go no further.

Using the sled as a shovel, he dug out a hollow, throwing up a
circular mount to protect him from the wind, should it arise.
Searching along the river-bank, he collected wood for a fire,
sufficient to last him till morning. He set up his sled on end, like a
tombstone, for a head rest, and lay himself down with his feet toward
the blaze. The dogs gathered round him shivering, lying one on either
side, striving to share the warmth of his body. He beat them off at
first, but they always crept back; so at last, becoming languidly
sorry for them, he let them stop there.

He was terribly tired; his bones felt like bars of red-hot iron
scorching their way through his flesh. The hardness of the ice beneath
the snow surface had racked his body in every joint. Every now and
then he would get up and throw some wood on the fire, and lie down
again, pulling his blanket over his head, folding his arms tightly
across his chest, and gathering his knees up close to his body to
conserve whatever heat he had. Though his body slept, never for a
second did his brain lose consciousness of the cold and of the sense
of travel. Always he seemed to be pressing on, doggedly, wearily, with
the forest rushing past him on either hand. Spurling was in sight;
sometimes he would halt, and jeeringly beckon to him. When he had come
within speaking distance of him, he would start off again, leaving a
narrow track of gold behind, for one of the sacks had burst.

Gradually the most fatal feeling that any man can experience in
northland travel stole upon him--_he felt that he did not care_. If
the fire went out, what matter? He would not get up to relight it. If
Spurling were standing at his side, he would not disturb himself to
look at him. If Mordaunt were to come to him, well, he might perhaps
turn round to look at her.

He began to dream of her as he had seen her in the locket. They were
both back in the old homeland. He was talking with her in an English
garden and a thrush was singing overhead. How long it was since he had
listened to the song of any bird! Why, he had almost forgotten that
there was such an ecstasy in the world. So exalted was he, that he
paid more attention to the thrush's song than to the words which
Mordaunt said. Then she grew angry and