“Doing the best they can,” said Cheviot, with an air of not meaning to notice the girl. “No, they aren’t doing the best they can. They aren’t even getting our boat lowered.” “They’ve had to knock off work a minute. The wind’s playing the mischief with the head-sails.” “Yes, and if we don’t look sharp the wind’ll play the mischief with more than the head-sails.” The volunteer looked across Cheviot’s shoulder an instant into the thicker fog. Through that veil no man might yet discover if the ice were being driven back against the bar, but all could feel that the need for quick action might be greater than the fog would let them see. The instant the volunteer went back to the waiting group, Hildegarde drew close to the solitary figure at the railing. “Louis!” Whether at something new in the girl’s low voice, or at a simultaneous shrill dissonance in the thick, chill air, Cheviot started and looked round. “Oh, it’s those Chinamen!” he said, his eyes on the blue-cotton crew hauling at a rope with a kind of wicked hilarity as they sang their barbaric, disquieting chant. But it was a new experience to find that anything could get on Louis’s nerves! “Is it true you’ve been up all night?” Hildegarde said hurriedly, scanning his face. He nodded, and turned seaward again to watch the little boat planting out bright-colored buoys in the mist. “Louis, the captain says I may speak to you. Only five minutes, so we mustn’t waste time pretending. It’s dangerous what you mean to do. Oh, don’t be afraid! I’m not going to try to prevent your going. Only, if you don’t come back, Louis”—her voice fell—“I shan’t know how to go on living.” For a moment he made no answer, and then, with his eyes still on the dim boat dancing in the mist: “You’re only rather frightened,” he said. “Wait till all this has gone by.” “Ah, can’t you see? Why is it so hard for you to believe?” “Because,” he said very low, “I know if I did, it would be the signal for the old barrier to rise up again.” “What barrier? You aren’t thinking—” “I’m thinking this isn’t the place for you to—” He checked himself. “For me to do what?” “To get rid of your old—” Again he stopped, and then, with an effect of rather bitter patience, “Of course for you he’s the dominating thought up here among the ice.” “No!” “Do you mean to say he hasn’t been in your mind a hundred times? Continually?” “Not continually, because—” “Well, a hundred remembrances would satisfy most men,” he said. “Would it satisfy you, Louis?” “No, I should want all, and I know there’s no chance of getting all here.” “I suppose this isn’t the time for me to tell you—” He turned on her almost roughly. “You can’t suppose I need to be told what was in your mind when we got caught in the ice? And when that first ship showed on the horizon—” He stopped again, and turned away as one who has said all. “You”—the mere suggestion took away her breath—“you didn’t think it might be—” “_You_ did.”