Of all that he had witnessed Granger had heard no sound—there lay the chief terror of it. Like the handwriting on the wall in Babylon, it had taken place in silence. The crime which he had so often contemplated, and planned, had been transacted before his eyes; the person who had done the deed had kept his back turned toward him, but in his attire was strangely like himself—and instead of being gratified he was filled with loathing and hatred for the slayer.
In the person of another he had seen the vileness which he had been seeking for himself, and was horrified. He knew that, had he had his chance, he might have taken Spurling's life in just some such way as that—he had imagined how he would do it many times. And now that it was accomplished, he was sick with pity for the murdered man.
To one thing he had instantly made up his mind, that, if this should prove to be more than a fancy of delirium—the miraged portrayal of a villainy which had actually occurred—he would track the assassin as he had tracked Spurling, till the last ounce of his strength failed him, that Spurling might be avenged. Perhaps, in the avenging he hoped to clear himself in his own sight of his imagined share in the crime.
He felt as though the deed had been the result of his own projected hatred, and that he himself was the real murderer. When he remembered the appearance of the man whom he now followed, it seemed like going in pursuit of his own self.
CHAPTER XXII
THE BLIZZARD
Now that he was nearing God's Voice, it was necessary that he should travel more cautiously and keep a sharp lookout ahead. At any moment he might come in sight of a Company's trapper, either sitting beneath the trees by his camp-fire or racing down-river between the tall banks, following his sled. He might be recognised, and recognition would lead to his arrest. Whatever happened afterwards, he desired his freedom for yet a little while, so he went carefully. In the course of the night he passed by one wigwam; but the Indian was evidently away, for no dog rose up to herald his approach. If the squaw was there, she did not rouse; he got by unnoticed.
Hoping against hope, he argued with himself, trying to believe that Spurling was alive. He told himself that this had been a vision sent to him from God to turn him aside from his crime. He had gazed upon himself as he would have become, and his soul had revolted at the sight.