"Come!" he cried. "Over the snow and over the ice! Come! where no
human footsteps have ever trodden, and where no human trace is
ever left."

Blindly, instinctively, Crayford made an effort to part them. His
brother officers, standing near, pulled him back. They looked at
each other anxiously. The merciless cold, striking its victims in
various ways, had struck in some instances at their reason first.
Everybody loved Crayford. Was he, too, going on the dark way that
others had taken before him? They forced him to seat himself on
one of the lockers. "Steady, old fellow!" they said
kindly--"steady!" Crayford yielded, writhing inwardly under the
sense of his own helplessness. What in God's name could he do?
Could he denounce Wardour to Captain Helding on bare
suspicion--without so much as the shadow of a proof to justify
what he said? The captain would decline to insult one of his
officers by even mentioning the monstrous accusation to him. The
captain would conclude, as others had already concluded, that
Crayford's mind was giving way under stress of cold and
privation. No hope--literally, no hope now, but in the numbers of
the expedition. Officers and men, they all liked Frank. As long
as they could stir hand or foot, they would help him on the
way--they would see that no harm came to him.

The word of command was given; the door was thrown open; the hut
emptied rapidly. Over the merciless white snow--under the
merciless black sky--the exploring party began to move. The sick
and helpless men, whose last hope of rescue centered in their
departing messmates, cheered faintly. Some few whose days were