confident hope that the five would come back, the march of the White
Guard began.




III

It was eighteen days after. In the shadow of a little island of pines,
that lies in a shivering waste of ice and snow, the White Guard were
camped. They were able to do this night what they had not done for
days--dig a great grave of snow, and building a fire of pine wood at each
end of this strange house, get protection and something like comfort.
They sat silent close to the fires. Jaspar Hume was writing with numbed
fingers. The extract that follows is taken from his diary. It tells that
day's life, and so gives an idea of harder, sterner days that they had
spent and must yet spend, on this weary journey.

December 25th.--This is Christmas Day and Camp twenty-seven. We
have marched only five miles to-day. We are eighty miles from Great
Fish River, and the worst yet to do. We have discovered no signs.
Jeff Hyde has had a bad two days with his frozen foot. Gaspe
Toujours helps him nobly. One of the dogs died this morning.
Bouche is a great leader. This night's shelter is a god-send.
Cloud-in-the-Sky has a plan whereby some of us will sleep well. We
are in latitude 63deg 47' and longitude 112deg 32' 14". Have worked
out lunar observations. Have marked a tree JH/27 and raised cairn
No. 3.

We are able to celebrate Christmas Day with a good basin of tea and