re numerous they would all
die of hunger. Hatteras seemed to wish to avoid them, and could he
be blamed? But these men might be their fellow-countrymen, and,
however slight might be the chance of saving them, ought they not
to try it? He asked Bell what he thought about it, but the poor fellow's
heart was hardened by his own suffering, and he did not answer.
Clawbonny dared not question Hatteras, so he left it to Providence.

In the evening of the 27th, Simpson appeared to be at the last
extremity; his limbs were already stiff and frozen; his difficult
breathing formed a sort of mist round his head, and convulsive
movements announced that his last hour was come. The expression of
his face was terrible, desperate, and he threw looks of powerless
anger towards the captain. He accused him silently, and Hatteras
avoided him and became more taciturn and wrapped up in himself than
ever. The following night was frightful; the tempest redoubled in
violence; the tent was thrown down three times, and the snowdrifts
buried the poor fellows, blinded them, froze them, and wounded them
with the sharp icicles struck off the surrounding icebergs. The dogs
howled lamentably. Simpson lay exposed to the cruel atmosphere. Bell
succeeded in getting up the tent again, which, though it did not
protect them from the cold, kept out the snow. But a more violent
gust blew it down a fourth time, and dragged it along in its fury.

"Oh, we can't bear it any longer!" cried Bell.

"Courage, man, courage!" answered the doctor, clinging to him in order
to prevent themselves rolling down a ravine. Simpson's death-rattle
was heard. All at once, with a last effort, he raised himself up and
shook his fist at Hatteras, who was looking at him fixedly, then gave
a fearful cry, and fell back dead in the midst of his unfinished
threat.

"He is dead!" cried the doctor.

"Dead!" repeated Bell.

Hatteras advanced towards the corpse, but was driven back by a gust
of wind.

Poor Simpson was the first victim to the murderous climate, the first
to pay with his life the unreasonable obstinacy of the captain. The
dead man had called Hatteras an assassin, but he did not bend beneath
the accusation. A single tear escaped from his eyes and froze on his
pale cheek. The doctor and Bell looked at him with a sort of terror.
Leaning on his stick, he looked like the genius of the North, upright
in the midst of the whirlwind, and frightful in his immobility.

He remaine