He would have to ration the oil over a period of days, and not drink it all tomorrow, for there would be many of them. In the half-light the blade seemed ghostly white. It fascinated Walton, then filled him with sudden repulsion. He dropped it, his hand stayed by the thought of blood. Blood, red, living, leaping from an animal, was one thing; but a man— His hands reached for the native’s throat, hands strong, powerful, even after several days’ fast. He had removed his mittens and now felt the bite of the frost; then he touched the fur of the Eskimo’s parka hood. The throat was close now, and still the Eskimo slept. Walton’s fingers curved; then his hands dropped swiftly to the shoulders.
“Good God, man, wake up and save us both! I’m—trying to remain a man!”
The native’s eyes opened without fear; he spoke quietly in English, even kindly: “My son, I am awake!”
“You speak English!”
“When I wish. I cared for one of the first missionaries who came North many years ago, preaching of the white man and his God. He told us of his code, that cared for the old. We killed ours when they could no longer withstand the frost or follow the tribe. For a lifetime I have wondered about this code, and what would happen when a white man hungered. He taught me English, but he could not make a white man of me. My code is different. It is a better code, for the race.
“I have read that self-preservation is the first law of Nature. That is not the truth. There is a nobler code. Self-preservation is the second law of Nature. The first law of Nature is race-preservation. Through it humanity has survived, even my race. It governs the civilized races even today, for parents give their lives for their children. But my people are nearer to it than yours. When the food is low, it is the aged who starve, that the worthy young may live and reproduce. Thus it has always been with my people; thus it always will be.
“During the long months on the schooner I watched you. You called me filthy, greasy. I wondered! You were the best educated man I had ever known. You spoke like the books I read from; yet you were not a man. Hanson and Schwartz were men. Civilization baffled me.
“Age should give forth wisdom, and leave curiosity to youth, who must ever learn by experience. Strange that I should be curious at my age, but I wondered which code would prevail, your code or the code of self-preservation. I watched your struggle! The outcome made little difference to me. I’ve run my race; the end is near. Tonight I knew you would come. I was afraid of your little pocketknife—the blade would not go deep enough; so I left my own. A knife-thrust is nothing. Thus my father and mother died, when he could no longer hunt, and she could no longer chew walrus-hide and soften it for garments. You came nearer and nearer, and through half-closed eyes I saw the struggle in your face, and never did I see greater. You dropped the knife, then reached for my throat—a withered column of skin and muscles that you could snap with one of your strong hands. I thought you had gone back, and waited. So this was your code, after all.... Then—you called.”
Walton nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I won, or my code did—for a time.”