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ask Bill to let us have enough morphia to deaden the pain when, as I think still it must have come, the cold became too much to live. With a steep icy slope below us, ending in an ice-cliff which itself led into the pressure, I don't know whether any of us had much hope of finding the tent—though afterwards as the wind went down we said we had. Without the tent I think we must have died.

I suppose at times all through this blizzard we must have dozed—I remember waking once after this to hear Bill singing hymns—every now and then I could hear a little, and Bill says Birdie was doing the same: I chimed in a bit, but not very much. Early Monday morning there were decided lulls in the wind, and the blizzard had practically blown itself out. Before daylight, while it was still blowing, we turned out and went down the slope to try and find the tent. We could see nothing, and were forced to return. It was now 48 hours since we had had a meal, and we managed about the weirdest meal ever eaten N. or South. We got the floorcloth under the heads of our bags, then got into our bags and drew the floorcloth over our heads and got the primus going in this shelter, and the cooker held by hand over the primus. In time we got both tea and pemmican—the blubber left in the cooker burnt and gave the tea a burnt taste—none of us will ever forget that meal. I enjoyed it as much as such a meal ever could be enjoyed, and that burnt taste will always bring back that memory.

A little glow of light began to come up and we turned out to have a further search for the tent. Birdie went off