“All right, den I tell you what I got to say! I’s mighty good an’ tired dis heah country! Dat’s what I got to say! Heah we come off f’m a good civilianized lan’ wheah de sun git up an’ go to bed same as people do, an’ come off heah wheah de sun git up ha’f way, an’ cain’t git up no furdah, and cain’t git back nohow, but jes’ stay dar week in an’ week out, an’ keep hones’ folks awake, an’ den when it do git down cain’t git up ag’in, an’ de whole worl’ freeze up a-waitin’ foh hit. An’ what we come foh? Why, to fin’ a’ old pole what can be pick’ up in anybody’s wood-pile, free foh ca’yin’ off! Come down heah aftah a _pole_! What kin’ o’ pole you reck’n’ gwine grow in such place, anyhow? I sh’d _say_ pole! Why, you couldn’t grow a bean pole! You couldn’t grow a willer squich like I use to keep foh a little girl what need hit now—bringin’ her ole mammy off down heah to freeze up in dis ice-jug! Come aftah a pole an’ fine a hole, dat’s what we done! No won’er Mistah Macaroni know what I thinkin’ ’bout, when hit all freeze up an’ stay heah, ’stid o’ gwine wheah hit b’long!” The old woman paused an instant for breath, then in a deep voice of warning concluded her arraignment. “An’ what kin’ o’ great black beas’ gwine come an’ get dis ship befo’ we all see mo’nin’? What great black monstah comin’ outen dis long black night what you-all mention? I know—hit Deff! Dat what comin’—Deff! Gwine out to say good-by to de sun, is you? Well, you bettah, caise when dat sun git roun’ dis way ag’in, if hit evah do, hit’s my ’pinion dat hit wait a long time befo’ _we_-all come out to say ‘Howdy!’” The old woman flung herself out of the saloon. We laughed, but her final words had not been entirely without effect. It was by no means impossible that during the long night the “black beast” would come, and that the returning sun would find fewer to bid it welcome. “I think she speaks not with the spirit of prophecy,” said Ferratoni, but nevertheless we grew rather silent as we passed into the gloom without. Edith Gale and I ascended to the bridge. The others did not follow, but huddled forward to the bow. It lacked still ten minutes of midday. We now saw that the sky overhead was thick, but clear-streaked in the north. Where the sun would appear there was a sorrowful semblance of dawn. Far across the black, frozen wastes, chill bands of red and orange glowed feebly amid heavier bands of dusk violet. Profound, overpowering, the infinite dark and cold were upon us. Before it, philosophies dwindled and the need of warm human touch and sympathy came powerfully upon us all. Edith Gale did not speak, and instinctively we drew closer together. Somewhere beneath the fur wrappings my hand found hers. She did not withdraw it. The caution of Chauncey Gale seemed as far off as the place where he had spoken it. I leaned nearer to her. The word formed itself on my lips—I could not be blamed. “Sweetheart!” I whispered.