"You should have heard us sing that up in our snow hut, when for
five months the sun never sent a streak above the horizon," said
Philip. "At the end--in the fourth month--it was more like the
wailing of madmen. MacTavish died then: a young half Scot, of the
Royal Mounted. After that Radisson and I were alone, and sometimes
we used to see how loud we could shout it, and always, when we
came to those two last lines--"

She interrupted him:

"Where the gray geese race 'cross the red moon's face
From the white wind's Arctic wrath."


"Your memory is splendid!" he cried admiringly.

"Yes, always when we came to the end of those lines, the white
foxes would answer us from out on the barrens, and we would wait
for the sneaking yelping of them before we went on. They haunted
us like little demons, those foxes, and never once could we catch
a glimpse of them during the long night. They helped to drive
MacTavish mad. He died begging us to keep them away from him. One
day I was wakened by Radisson crying like a baby, and when I sat
up in my ice bunk he caught me by the shoulders and told me that
he had seen something that looked like the glow of a fire
thousands and thousands of miles away. It was the sun, and it came
just in time."

"And this other man you speak of, Radisson?" she asked.