Wardour. He who lies sleeping or dead is Frank Aldersley.

The iceberg drifts slowly, over the black water, through the ashy
light. Minute by minute the dying fire sinks. Minute by minute
the deathly cold creeps nearer and nearer to the lost men.

Richard Wardour rouses himself from his thoughts--looks at the
still white face beneath him--and places his hand on Frank's
heart. It still beats feebly. Give him his share of the food and
fuel still stored in the boat, and Frank may live through it.
Leave him neglected where he lies, and his death is a question of
hours--perhaps minutes; who knows?

Richard Wardour lifts the sleeper's head and rests it against the
cavern side. He goes to the boat, and returns with a billet of
wood. He stoops to place the wood on the fire--and stops. Frank
is dreaming, and murmuring in his dream. A woman's name passes
his lips. Frank is in England again--at the ball--whispering to
Clara the confession of his love.

Over Richard Wardour's face there passes the shadow of a deadly
thought. He rises from the fire; he takes the wood back to the
boat. His iron strength is shaken, but it still holds out. They
are drifting nearer and nearer to the open sea. He can launch the
boat without help; he can take the food and the fuel with him.
The sleeper on the iceberg is the man who has robbed him of
Clara--who has wrecked the hope and the happiness of his life.
Leave the man in his sleep, and let him die!

So the tempter whispers. Richard Wardour tries his strength on