Arctic camp was eight hundred miles due north.  Fort Churchill,
over on Hudson's Bay, was four hundred miles to the east, and Fort
Resolution, on the Great Slave, was four hundred miles to the
west.  On his map he had drawn a heavy circle about Prince Albert,
six hundred miles to the south.  That was the nearest line of rail.
Six days back Radisson had died after a mouth's struggle with that
terrible thing they called "le mort rouge," or the Red Death.
Since then Philip had pointed his canoe straight UP the Dubawnt
waterways, and was a hundred and twenty miles nearer to
civilization.  He had been through these waterways twice before,
and he knew that there was not a white man within a hundred and
fifty miles of him.  And as for a white woman--

Weyman stopped his paddling where there was no current, and leaned
back in his canoe for a breathing space, and to fill his pipe.  A
WHITE WOMAN! Would he stare at her like a fool when he saw her
again for the first time? Eighteen months ago he had seen a white
woman over at Fort Churchill--the English clerk's wife, thirty,
with a sprinkle of gray in her blond hair, and pale blue eyes.
Fresh from the Garden of Eden, he had wondered why the half-dozen