Two more died in a week—died apparently of utter despondency and weariness.
“I shall soon see the light,” were the last words of one of these. He just smiled faintly, and passed away.
Three more in a fortnight.
They nearly all seemed to go in the same way, of utter debility and hopelessness.
Byarnie was nurse-in-chief. He was always with them to the last; the great giant kneeling down beside their pallets, and breathing in their dying ears words that it is to be hoped often deprived even death of its victory.
More than one died leaning against Byarnie’s broad breast. I have already said that Byarnie’s big fat face was far from handsome. Ah! but it was so honest; and had you seen him there by the bedsides of those dying sailors, you would have said that his face shone at times with almost a heavenly light.
Another, and still another, was borne slowly away to the ice-hole.
Then it seemed as if Death was for a time satiated, and had claimed victims enough.
For almost the first time this winter, the sky cleared, the stars shone like emeralds through the frosty glow, the moon put in an appearance, casting long shadows across the snowfields, from those who walked out.
There was the aurora, too, a brighter display than any one ever remembered witnessing. Away in the north, and overhead, the ever-changing colours shimmered and danced in a way that was magical, marvellous, and it seemed at times that you had but to put up your hand and touch the broad fringes of light that danced and flickered before your eyes.