of Lamb was such that I feared for his life if we did not soon get on board. Every few steps the snow had to be broken down to make a passage. It was of God's mercy that I had strength enough to hold up, else both of us must have perished. Occasionally I threw myself down on the ice or snow, thoroughly exhausted; then I would start up, arouse Lamb, who seemed to be verging toward that sleep which in cold regions becomes the sleep of death, and once more battle onward.
During this hard passage back to the vessel my noble dog Barbekark was like a cheering friend; as now and then I lay almost exhausted upon the snow for a moment's rest, he danced around me, kissing my face, placing himself by my side, where I could pillow my head upon his warm body. No one who knew his characteristics could fail to perceive that he realised the critical situation of Lamb and myself. He would bound toward me, raise himself on his hinder legs, place his paws upon my breast, and glance from me toward the vessel, from the vessel to Lamb, then leap away, leading the sledge-team on a distance ahead, there to wait till we again came near, the few dogs and the soft state of the snow preventing us from riding.
I was indeed a happy man as I walked into the gangway of the George Henry, and learned that all my company were safely back to its shelter.
On February 25th I made another attempt to see what had become of the woman who had been abandoned, and I now take from my diary the history of that excursion:—
"Eight o'clock, night.—Back again! the attempt to reach the plains successful; the woman found within a tomb of snow, her spirit gone to God.
"I will now attempt to give the incidents of this day.
"This morning Ebierbing and I were up early. While my Innuit friend (who was to be my companion and auxiliary in my renewed attempt to rescue the one at the plains) was engaged in icing[1] the sledge and harnessing the dogs, I was
- ↑ See chapter xx. vol. ii.
