It was the worst day of the winter, an evil, desolate,
piercing day; no human creature should dare such weather. Yet the old
man journeyed patiently on until nightfall, and would have gone
farther had not darkness concealed the track; his fear was that new
snow might fall deeply enough to hide it, and then there was no more
hope of following. But nothing could be done at night, so he made his
camp, a lodge under a drift with the snow for walls and roof, and a
hot fire that barely melted the edges of its icy hearth. As the blaze
flared out into the darkness, he heard a cry, and followed; it was
faint, but apparently not distant, and after some search he found the
spot; there lay Jarvis Waring, helpless and nearly frozen. 'I thought
you farther on,' he said, as he lifted the heavy, inert body.
'I fell and injured my knee yesterday; since then I have been freezing
slowly,' replied Waring in a muffled voice. 'I have been crawling
backwards and forwards all day to keep myself alive, but had just
given it up when I saw your light.'
All night the old hands worked over him, and they hated the body they
touched; almost fiercely they fed and nourished it, warmed its blood,
and brought back life.
Pages:
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76