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“Too late! Too late!” he said. “Here he comes! It’s time I killed him.” He spoke gratingly, with the dull anger of years.

On the bright surface of the opposite hillside a sled bearing a muffled figure appeared silhouetted against the glisten of the crust. Its team, maddened by the village scent, poured down the incline toward the river bank and the guide swung onto the runners behind, while the voice of the people rose to their priest. In a whirl of soft snow they drove down onto the treachery of the ice. The screams of the natives frenzied the pack and they rioted out onto the bending sheet, while the long sledge, borne by its momentum, shot forward till the splitting cry of the ice sounded over the lamentations. It slackened, sagged and disappeared in a surge of congealing waters. The wheel dogs were dragged into the opening and their mates ahead jerked backward onto them. In a fighting tangle, all settled into the swirl.

Orloff leaped from the sinking sled, but hindered by his fur swaddling, crashed through and lunged heavily in his struggles to mount the edge of the film. As he floundered onto the caving surface it let him back and the waters covered him time and again. He pitched oddly about, and for the first time they saw his eyes were bound tightly with bandages, which he strove to loosen.

“My God! He’s snow-blind!” cried George, and in a moment he appeared among the frantic mob fringing the shore.

The guide broke his way toward a hummock of old ice forming an islet near by, and the priest half swam, half scrambled behind, till they crawled out upon this solid footing. Here the wintry wind searched them and their dripping clothes stiffened quickly. Orloff dragged the strips from his face, and as the sun glitter pierced his eyes he writhed as though seared by the naked touch of hot steel.

He shouted affrightedly in his blindness, but the mocking voice of Big George answered him and he cowered at the malevolence in the words.

“Here I am, Orloff. It’s help ye want, is it? I’ll shoot the man that tries to reach ye. Ha, ha! You’re freezin’ eh? Georgie will talk to keep ye awake. A dirty trick of the river to cheat me so. I’ve fattened for years on the hope of stampin’ your life out and now it’s robbed me. But I’ll stick till ye’re safe in Hell.”

The man cried piteously, turning his bleared eyes toward the sound.

“Shoot, why don’t you, and end it? Can’t you see we’re freezing?” He stood up in his carapace of stiffened clothes, shivering palsiedly.

“The truest thing ye ever said,” cried George, and he swung his colts into view. “It’ll favour you and I’ll keep my vow.” He raised the gun. The splashing of the distant dogs broke the silence. A native knelt stiffly.

“George! George!” Captain had stumbled down among them and plucked at his arm, peering dimly into his distorted face. “Great God, are you a murderer? They’ll be dead before we can save them.”

“Save ’em ?” said George, while reason fought with his mania. “Whose goin’ to save ’em? He needs killin’. I’m hungry for his life.”

“He’s a man, George. They’re both human, and they’re dying in sight of us. Give him a chance. Fight like a man.”

As he spoke the fury fell away from the whaler and he became the alert, strong man of the frontier, knowing the quick danger and meeting it.

He bellowed at the natives and they fled backward before his voice, storming the cache where lay the big skin canoes. They slid one down and seizing paddles crushed the ice around it till it floated, then supported by the prow, George stamped the ice into fragments ahead, and they forced their way slowly along the channel he made. Soaked to the armpits he smashed a trail through which they reached the hummock where the others lay, too listless for action.