He could not see two yards ahead. Blindly he
plodded along hour after hour. As the time dragged on it seemed to him
that he had been walking for ages. His motion became mechanical. He
was faint from hunger and his mouth parched with thirst. The bitter
wind was reaching to his very vitals in spite of the exertion, and at
last he did not feel it much. He stumbled and fell now and again and
each time it was more difficult to rise.
There was always a strong inclination to lie a little where he fell
and rest, but his benumbed brain told him that to stop walking meant
death, and urged him up again to further action.
Finally the snow ceased but he did not notice it. With his head held
back and staring straight before him at nothing he stalked on throwing
his feet ahead like an automaton. The stars came out one after another
and looked down pitilessly upon the tragedy that was being enacted
before their very eyes.
Many hours had passed; morning was close at hand. The cold grew more
intensely bitter but Bob did not know it. He was quite insensible to
sensations now. Vaguely he imagined himself going home to Wolf Bight.
It was not far--he was almost there. In a little while he would see
his father and mother and Emily--Emily--Emily was sick.
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