He resumed:
December 2d, Thursday—Metz died during the night.... Hansen dying. Still blowing a gale from the northeast.... A hard night.
Lloyd's pen moved slower and slower as she wrote. The lines of the manuscript began to blur and swim before her eyes.
And it was to this that she must send him. To this inhuman, horrible region; to this life of prolonged suffering, where death came slowly through days of starvation, exhaustion, and agony hourly renewed. He must dare it all again. She must force him to it. Her decision had been taken; her duty was plain to her. Now it was irrevocable.
... Hansen died during early morning.... Dennison breaking down....
... December 5th—Sunday—Dennison found dead this morning between Adler and myself....
The vision became plainer, more distinct. She fancied she saw the interior of the tent and the dwindling number of the Freja's survivors moving about on their hands and knees in its gloomy half-light. Their hair and beards were long, their faces black with dirt, monstrously distended and fat with the bloated irony of starvation. They were no longer men. After that unspeakable stress of misery nothing but the animal remained.
... Too weak to bury him, or even carry him out of the tent.... He must lie where he is.... Last spoonful of glycerine and hot water.... Divine service at 5:30 P.M....
Once more Lloyd faltered in her writing; her hand moved slower. Shut her teeth though she might, the sobs would come; swiftly the tears brimmed her eyes, but she tried to wink them back, lest Bennett should see. Heroically she wrote to the end of the sentence. A pause followed:
"Yes—' divine services at'—I—I—"