Towards evening Simpson grew worse, and his end seemed near. His limbs were rigid, and his face wore a terrible despairing look, which changed to one of fierce vindictive rage, whenever his glance fell on Hatteras. A whole volume of accusations and reproaches, perhaps not unmerited, might be read in the expression of his eye.
Hatteras did not go near him; he evidently shunned his presence, and was more tacitun, reserved, and incommunicative than ever.
It was a fearful night. The storm raged with redoubled violence, and three times the tent had been torn down, and the snow-drift had beat piteously on the unsheltered men, blinding their eyes, freezing them to the marrow, and cutting their faces with the sharp pieces of ice broken off the surrounding icebergs. The dogs howled lamentably, and poor Simpson lay dying. Bell succeeded once more in securing the tent, which, frail as it was, protected them from snow, if not from cold, but a sudden blast tore it up a fourth time, and whirled it completely away.
"Really this is beyond endurance!" exclaimed Bell.
"Courage!" said the Doctor, catching hold of his arm to keep himself from being blown down the ravine.
The death-rattle was heard in Simpson's throat. Suddenly he made one expiring effort, half raised himself, shook his clenched fist at Hatteras, who looked at him with fixed steady gaze, and fell back lifeless, with the unspoken execration on his lips.
"Dead!" exclaimed the Doctor.
"Dead!" echoed Bell.
Hatteras came forward to look, but was driven back by the wind. The dead man counted him his murderer, but he was not overwhelmed by the accusation, though a tear escaped his eye, and stiffened on his pale cheek.
This was the first of the crew that had fallen a victim—the first who would never return to England—the first who paid the penalty with his life of the captain's indomitable obstinacy.
The Doctor and Bell gazed at him with a sort of terror, as he stood motionless the livelong night, resting on his stick, as if defying the tempest that roared about him.
