THE WHITE WORLD 



and of the ordeal it is for any one of us when compelled at 

 home to sit even for a single night with companions in a 

 brilliantly lighted apartment by the side of a dead friend, 

 and then of this living man who had lain there absolutely 

 alone by the side of the dead through days, nights, weeks 

 and months of silent vigil, I marvelled that Paul Bjoervig 

 was still sane. 



But he was sane. He was wholly rational. Now and 

 then his voice trembled, or a tear coursed down his black 

 cheek. The long strain upon his courage, his stamina, his 

 sanity, was at an end. So great was the relief that he 

 alternately laughed and cried; and then told stories, and 

 cracked jokes, trying to be his old self again. But in the 

 end his emotions overcame him, and to get away from our 

 curious though sympathetic gaze he would go out and 

 take a walk by himself. We kept watch of him, fearful 

 lest his reason might give way. But the hero of these 

 two months of supreme trial was not made of the stuff that 

 surrenders. He pulled himself together as fast as he 

 could. That night, poking my head out of my sleeping 

 bag, I saw Paul sitting by the fire — the bright, delusive fire 

 that could have no effect upon the 40 below temperature in 

 the hut — smoking his pipe. Thus he must have sat night 

 after night during that dreadful vigil. So hard is it to 

 shake off habits! 



On the following day Paul helped us drag out the body 

 of Bernt Bentzen and carefully bury it in a hole which the 

 wind had hollowed out. It was a bitter day. 45 below 

 zero, and a fierce blast blowing down from the glaciers. 

 But the most industrious man of us all. after the little 

 funeral ceremony was over, was Paul. For hours he was 

 busy chinking up all the openings in the walls around the 

 rude tomb. 



" I promised him the bears and foxes shouldn't get him," 

 he explained. 



They never did. To this day that lover of the great 

 white world sleeps in his tomb amid the eternal rocks and 

 snows of Cape Heller. 



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