For three silent weeks the snow continued to fall without a break. Then it ceased as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the fort buried well nigh to the eaves. The herald of change was a wild rush of wind sweeping down the valley from the broken hills which formed its northern limits. And, within half an hour, the silence was torn, and ripped, and tattered, and the world transformed, and given up to complete and utter chaos. A hurricane descended on the post, and its timbers groaned under the added burden. The forest giants laboured and protested at the merciless onslaught, while the crashing of trees boomed out its deep note amidst the shriek of the storm. As the fury of it all rose, so rose up the snowfall of weeks into a blinding fog which shut out every sight of the desolate plateau as though it had never been.
Five weeks saw the extent of winter's first onslaught. And after that for awhile, the battle resolved itself into a test of human endurance, with the temperature hovering somewhere below 60° below zero. For a few short hours the sun would deign to appear above the horizon, prosecute its weary journey across the skyline, and ultimately die its daily death with almost pitiful indifference. Then some twenty hours, when the world was abandoned to the starry magnificence of the Arctic night, supported by the brilliant light of a splendid aurora.
It was during this time that Steve pursued his researches into the lives of these people. He was sitting now in the laboratory, which was a building apart from all the rest. It was the home of the chemist's research. It was equipped with wonderful completeness. Besides the shelves containing all the paraphernalia of a chemist's profession, and the counter which supported a distilling apparatus, and which was clearly intended for other experiment as well, there was a desk, and a small wood stove, which was alight, and radiating a pleasant heat.
It was the desk which held most interest for Steve. It was here he looked to find, in the dead man's papers, in his letters, in his records and books, the answer to every question in his mind.
For some hours he had been reading from one of the volumes of the man's exhaustive diary. It was a living document containing a fascinating story of the chemist's hopes and fears for the great objects which had led to his abandonment of the civilized world for the bitter heights of Unaga. And in every line of it Steve realized it could only have been written by a man of strong, deep conviction and enthusiasm, a man whose purpose soared far above the mere desire for gain. He felt, in the reading, he was listening to the words of a man who was all and more, far more, than his wife had claimed for him.
At last the fire in the stove shook down and he became aware of the work of busy shovels going on just outside. He pulled out his watch, and the yellow light of the oil lamp told him that he had been reading for nearly three hours. Setting a marker in the book he closed it reluctantly, and prepared to return the litter of documents to the drawers which stood open beside him.
At that moment the door opened, and the tall figure of the squaw An-ina stood in the framing.
"Him supper all fixed," she announced, in her quietly assured fashion.
Steve looked up, and his eyes gazed squarely into the woman's handsome face. He was thinking rapidly.