Frank Savile, Beyond the Great South Wall: The Secret of the Antarctic (1901)
“ Garlicke was as one possessed. “My God, my God,” he shrieked, “I’ve murdered him—murdered him. What am I to do? What am I to do? Speak, you fool,” he yammered, “tell me what I’m to do—to do,” and his voice rose to a scream, while he shook at my coat tempestuously. “Don’t tell me that we can’t reach him. My God, I shall go mad,” and he flung himself down upon the ice, tearing at it with bruised and bleeding fingers as he chattered hysterically. “For God’s sake, Heatherslie, say there’s hope—that we can get him up. We must—we must. Lord, have mercy upon me; what am I to do?” ”
