They move slowly at first, biting still, here and there, at the bunches of rich moss.

Presently the slow step becomes a trot, they crowd closely together while the Laps hasten to gather up their last unpacked possessions, their cooking utensils and their wooden gods.

The great herd break together from a trot to a gallop, from a gallop to a break-neck race, the distant thunder of their united tread reaches the camp during a few minutes, and they are gone to drink of the polar sea.

The Laps follow after them, dragging painfully their laden sledges in the broad track left by the thousands of galloping beasts--a day's journey, and they are yet far from the sea, and the trail is yet broad.

On the second day it grows narrower, and there are stains of blood to be seen; far on the distant plain before them their sharp eyes distinguish in the direct line a dark, motionless object, another and then another.