fleeted he could almost smell the blown meadow-scent. "Take us the
foxes, the little foxes . . . for our vines have tender grapes . . .
A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon
. . . Awake, O north wind, and come, thou south . . . blow upon my
garden, that the spices thereof may flow out . . ." He was
light-headed, and he knew it. He must hold out. They were all going
mad; were, in fact, three parts crazed already, all except the Gaffer.
And the Gaffer relied on him as his right-hand man. One glimpse of the
returning sun--one glimpse only--might save them yet.

He gazed out over the frozen hills, and northward across the ice-pack.
A few streaks of pale violet--the ghost of the Aurora--fronted the moon.
He could see for miles. Bear or fox, no living creature was in sight.
But who could tell what might be hiding behind any one of a thousand
hummocks? He listened. He heard the slow grinding of the ice-pack off
the beach: only that. "Take us the foxes, the little foxes. . ."

This would never do. He must climb down and walk briskly, or return to
the hut. Maybe there was a bear, after all, behind one of the hummocks,
and a shot, or the chance of one, would scatter his head clear of these
tom-fooling notions. He would have a search round.

What was that, moving . . . on a hummock, not five hundred yards away?
He leaned forward to gaze.

Nothing now: but he had seen something. He lowered himself to the eaves
by the north corner, and from the eaves to the drift piled there.
The drift was frozen solid, but for a treacherous crust of fresh snow.
His foot slipped upon this, and down he slid of a heap.