nothing? Is there no one up there? not even the Maker of it?
and if there is, does he stay there alone? Men and women die, but
surely there is something in us that does not die. If there is no
spirit in us that lives, of what use was it to make us at all? I think
we shall have a home up there."

Chingatok had again turned his eyes to the horizon, and spoke the
concluding words as if he were thinking aloud. The Captain looked at
him earnestly for some time in silence.

"You are right, Chingatok," he said at length, or at least attempted to
say as best he could--"you are right. My religion teaches me that we
have spirits; that God--your God and mine--dwells up there in what we
call heaven, and that His people shall dwell with him after death."

"His people!" repeated the Eskimo with a perplexed look. "Are some men
his people and some not?"

"Undoubtedly," replied the Captain, "men who obey a chief's commands are
_his_ men--his friends. Those who refuse to obey, and do every kind of
wickedness, are _not_ his friends, but his enemies. God has given us
free-wills, and we may reject him--we may choose to be his enemies."

It must not be supposed that Captain Vane expressed himself thus
clearly, but the above is the substance of what he attempted by many a
strange and complicated sentence to convey. That he had made his
meaning to some extent plain, was proved by Chingatok's reply.

"But I do not know God's commands; how then can I obey them?"

"You may not know them by book," replied the Captain promptly; "for you
have no books, but there is such a thing as the commands or law of God
written in the heart, and it strikes me, Chingatok, that you both know
and obey more of your Maker's laws than many men who have His word."

To this the Eskimo made no answer, for he did not rightly understand it,
and as the Captain found extreme difficulty in expressing his meaning on
such questions, he was quite willing to drop the conversation.
Nevertheless his respect for Chingatok was immensely increased from that
day forward.

He tried to explain what had been said to Benjy, and as that youth's
mind was of an inquiring turn he listened with great interest, but at
last was forced to confess that it was too deep for him. Thereafter he
fell into a mood of unusual silence, and pondered the matter for a long
time.

Awaking from his reverie at last, he said, abruptly, "How's her head,
father?"

"Due north, Benjy."

He pu