"At the end--in the fourth month--it was more like the wailing of madmen.
MacTavish died then: a young half Scot, of the Royal Mounted.

After that Radisson and I were alone, and sometimes we used to see how loud we could shout it, and always, when we came to those two last lines--" She interrupted him: "Where the gray geese race 'cross the red moon's face From the white wind's Arctic wrath." "Your memory is splendid!" he cried admiringly.
"Yes, always when we came to the end of those lines, the white foxes would answer us from out on the barrens, and we would wait for the sneaking yelping of them before we went on.

They haunted us like little demons, those foxes, and never once could we catch a glimpse of them during the long night.

They helped to drive MacTavish mad.

He died begging us to keep them away from him.