Windswept, bleak and ragged, savagely beautiful in their utter desolation, the mighty shores of Labrador tower over the racing tides of Hudson Straits.

Far out on the horizon a bank of mist hangs low, blending itself with the steel grey of the sea. Close by at the foot of the cliffs, a line of white foam everlastingly coils and uncoils itself, surging angrily against the glittering walls of granite.

In between, scattered over the grey waters, hundreds of icebergs are floating. In all shapes and sizes, these grim fragments of the eternal Arctic glaciers seem to keep guard over the sea. Like sentinels on the edge of the Polar regions they drift slowly back and forth in the Straits, obedient to tide and wind, leaving behind them a long wake of swirling eddies and floating cakes of ice.

Above all a grey, cloudless, cold sky. Everywhere silence. A silence which grips one’s heart. A silence which no earthly sound would seem able to shatter. A silence which one hears.

On the very edge of the highest cliff, a man stands alone. Dressed in seal skin, bare-headed, his long, coarse black hair thrown back and mingling with the dog fur trimming of his hood—the Eskimo hunter is watching the sea. His weather-beaten face is inscrutable. With slanting eyelids narrowed, his black eyes stare into space without a quiver of an eyelash. His square jaw is closed tightly. One hand is holding by the barrel a rifle in its greasy case. The other clutches a rawhide cartridge pouch.

The man has been there every day for weeks. Today, after two hours’ watch, he suddenly wheels around, drops his cartridge pouch, picks a handful of cartridges and loads his rifle. His task finished, he looks again towards the sea for a full minute. Then, satisfied, he raises the rifle to his shoulder and fires six shots at regular intervals.

The crack of the Winchester shatters the silence—echoes along the cliff—sending down towards the sea wave after wave of sound which, in turn, is picked up and flung back by each gully and by each cave throughout the mass of granite.

Startled from its nest, an eagle dashes from the cliff, sweeps up to the level of the man, remains motionless for a fraction of a second poised in midair—then uttering a shrill cry, lashes with its wings and dives into space.

Far down on the beach, amid the rocks which form a natural slide to the sea, tiny specks appear moving hurriedly back and forth. These are Eskimos, comrades of the man who stands guard hundreds of feet above them.

Their skin tents, huddled together in the chaotic mass of stone, remain invisible to the eye. They have heard the signal and their excitement is great. Smaller specks run about the beach. Some dash even into the icy water which flings them back in a blind, white smother of foam. These are the dogs, the sleigh Huskies, the faithful companions of the natives. Their short, wolf-like howl rises above the general confusion.

In a few minutes a white puff of smoke is seen, followed shortly by the quick bark of the rifle. Then another explosion is heard until the spluttering of a general fusillade rends the air ... answering the six shots fired from the top of the cliff.

Far out at sea, looming ghostlike through the fog, threading her cautious way amidst the icebergs—a three-masted auxiliary schooner appears. On her foremast flies the Revillon FrÈres flag. It is the supply ship which, once a year, calls on those desolate regions.