arm there, and it was significant that the snow
was dry; but sleep had brought him relief from discomfort, and he had
found getting up the greatest hardship of the trying journey. In
answer to his drowsy questions, Harding said he had once or twice heard
a wolf howl in the distance, but that was all; and then he lay down,
leaving Blake on guard.

Blake sat with his back to a snowbank, which afforded a slight shelter.
He imagined from his sensations that the temperature must be about
fifty degrees below zero. The frost bit through him, stiffening his
muscles until he felt that if vigorous movement were demanded of him he
would be incapable of it. His brain was dulled; he could not reason
clearly, though he had things to consider; and he looked about with
heavy eyes, trying to forget his physical discomfort, while his mind
wandered through a maze of confused thought.

There was a half-moon in the sky, which was pitilessly clear, for
cloudiness might have made it warmer; when the firelight sank, the
slender spruce trunks cut sharply against the silvery radiance and the
hard glitter of the snow. Everything was tinted with blue and white,
and the deathly cold coloring was depressing.

Blake began to consider their position, which was serious. They were
worn out and half-fed; their furs were ragged; and shortage of money
and the difficulty of transport had forced them to cut down their camp
equipment. Indeed, looking back on the long march, Blake was surprised
that they had escaped crippling frostbite; although both Benson and
Harding were somewhat lame from the strain which the use of snowshoes
puts on the muscles of the leg. There was, moreover, a risk of this
becoming dangerous; and it was probably two hundred miles to the Hudson
Bay post. The chances of their reaching it seemed very slight.

Just then a howl rang, harsh and ominous, through the frosty air. With
a nervous start, Blake grabbed his rifle. The wolves had scented them.
Turning his back to the light, he spent some minutes gazing fixedly at
the glistening white patches among the straggling trees, but he could
make out none of the stealthy, flitting shapes he had half expected to
see. It was encouraging that the wolves had not overcome their
timidity of the fire. Keen hunger would have driven them to an attack;
and Blake had no illusions about the result of that. However, the
fierce brutes were not starving; they must have found something to eat;