"Come away, kid," said the man at his side, pulling at his sleeve.
"But the suns! Look! Can you count them?"
"No, kid, we cain't count 'em." The man's voice was very low.
"But what is the matter? There is only one real sun! Where do they come from?"
"I do'no, I do'no. It's—we got to camp heah till—" He was interrupted by the boy:
"It's what?" he asked, bewildered.
"It's—I neveh seen it befo'—but I've hea'd tell—It's the white death. Heah, in the Lillimuit, an' some otheh places—nawth of the Endicotts, some say. Tonight—the flashin' lights, an' the blood-red aurora—tomorrow, a thousan' suns in the sky. They ain't no wind, an' the air is dead—dead, an' so cold yo' lungs'll crackle an' split if yo'r caught on the trail. We got to keep out of it, an' then—" His voice trailed into silence.
"And then what?" asked the boy, drowsily.
"I do'no, I do'no, kid—that depends."